


Pieces of You

by syrupfactory



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Post-Canon, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Temporarily human, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:34:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24705409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupfactory/pseuds/syrupfactory
Summary: Twenty years post-canon, Crowley and Aziraphale's happily-ever-after is uprooted when Aziraphale suddenly vanishes and an encounter with demons leaves Crowley mortal and powerless. After passing months in solitude, Crowley ventures back into London, only to find his husband living a human life as "Ezra" and mourning a fictional human husband called "Jay." Determined to get Aziraphale back, Crowley resolves to do whatever it takes to befriend him all over again, as ordinary people this time, until his angel remembers him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 147
Kudos: 382





	1. The Cottage

**Author's Note:**

> Click [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/620847095431217152/pieces-of-you-aziraphalecrowley-23k-words) to reblog on tumblr and see the pretty fanart for this fic!!
> 
> See a **printed book** of this fic [here](https://meowdejavu.tumblr.com/post/623383557120950273/pieces-of-you-23k-words-100-pages-printed-with)!

Crowley has just taken a lasagna out of the oven and set it on the counter when two arms gently encircle his waist from behind. 

“That smells wonderful, darling,” comes Aziraphale’s voice over his shoulder.

“Right on schedule,” Crowley replies, unable to fight his smile. 

After two decades of marriage, some things have become happily predictable, including the way a delicious smell never fails to lure Aziraphale into the kitchen. 

“Oh … I forgot parsley,” Crowley realizes out loud.

Taking off his oven mitts, he starts for the door when Aziraphale grabs hold of his elbow and whirls him around. 

“That parsley isn’t going anywhere,” Aziraphale says with a sly smile, pulling him into a kiss. 

Crowley happily returns the affection. That’s another nice thing about married life; they never need to dance around how much they enjoy each other’s company. 

Stepping out back into the brisk evening air, Crowley goes over to his little herb garden on the patio and squats down to gather some parsley. With the sunset and the summer breeze tossing his hair about, it’s almost ridiculously perfect. In fact, Crowley tends to feel like anything this good must have an expiration date. The powers that be have been silent all this time, but it hasn’t really been much time at all. He may have been the first to assert that they were on their own side, but it feels naive to think that they’ll be _free_ forever. 

Starting back inside, Crowley notices a slight shift in the air, as though something or someone is suddenly nearby and then gone just as quickly. It’s so subtle that he wonders if he’s merely imagined it. Shaking his head, he hurries back inside. 

He finds the kitchen empty. 

“Back,” he calls out, setting the parsley on the counter and taking up his knife. 

The house is silent. 

“Angel?”

Nothing. 

Crowley sets down the knife and starts toward the living room. 

“Where’d you go, Azir—”

The air is quickly forced from his lungs when he rounds the corner and sees Beelzebub and Dagon standing in the middle of the living room. 

“What have you done with him?” he demands. 

“Heaven will deal with your co-conspirator,” Dagon spits. 

They come closer, and Crowley starts to back away, but he bumps into someone behind him—Hastur. 

_This is it_ , Crowley thinks. He expects to be pulled straight into Hell, and he’ll have no way out this time. _This is it_. 

“Since you love this world and its people so much,” Hastur hisses in his ear. “We thought we’d give you a gift.”

As if on cue, Beelzebub reaches into a black pouch at her waist and produces a glowing orb. Crowley has no idea what it is, but it can’t be good news. She holds it up, looking a bit bored as usual, and starts to press it to his chest as though she just wants to get this over with. 

Crowley squirms, but Hastur and Dagon have him in a vice grip. As the light is forced into his body, Crowley’s surroundings go blurry and then vanish. 

_I’m sorry, Angel. I’m so sorry._

***

When Crowley opens his eyes, he’s lying face down on the floor. Hoisting himself up, his body feels heavier than he’s expecting, somehow, like someone’s dialed up gravity a bit, just for fun. 

Getting to his feet, he glances around. He’s alone in the room now.

“Azira... _phale_?” he calls out, only to realize halfway through that his jaw fucking _hurts_. 

Raising a hand to his face, it’s indeed extremely sore, as though he took a punch. And … there’s blood on his hand. Alright. But when he tries to will it away, nothing happens. He tries again, but it’s as if he isn’t even doing anything. 

Like he’s _forgotten_ how to heal himself with a miracle. 

Crowley realizes, belatedly, how heavily he’s breathing. In full panic, he rushes to the washroom, where he steadies himself against the sink before the mirror. 

He does a double-take when he sees his own face—his yellow snake eyes are gone, replaced with round pupils and average, hazel human irises. His tattoo has vanished. There’s a smear of blood on the side of his mouth, and his neck is flushed with color. 

“I’m mortal,” he says out loud before he’s fully realized the implications. “I’m _human_.”

For a moment, he has a glimmer of hope. If the demons turned him human rather than executing him, perhaps the same will be true for Aziraphale. Maybe he’ll be back any second. In fact, he could be here somewhere already and more badly injured.

At the thought, Crowley rushes through the house, checking each room, calling Aziraphale’s name even as it stabs his jaw to open his mouth. He peers outside at the beach, looking everywhere, feeling a pit in his newly human stomach. 

Aziraphale isn’t here, but maybe they won’t kill him, he hopes, perhaps in vain.

***

In the months that follow, Crowley waits. He doesn’t do much else aside from sleeping and drinking and, sometimes, eating. But he waits to see if his husband will return, because there’s nothing else to do. 

Ending his own life isn’t in the cards, he knows. For one thing, if there’s any chance Aziraphale is still alive, he won’t leave him alone in this. For another, Crowley suspects that the soul of a former demon (assuming he has a soul now; he’s not entirely sure how this works) _probably_ isn’t Heaven-bound, and he’s not giving Hell any excuse to drag him back down there so soon.

So, he waits. And drinks. And sleeps. And wakes up with his head pounding, aching for a piss. And then he drinks and sleeps again. Eventually, he finds that he’s miserably thirsty, so he switches to water for a while. Which is actually kind of amazing when you’re severely dehydrated, it turns out. 

He doesn’t cry. Not much, anyway. It’s like the tears aren’t really there. Then again, he doesn’t feel like he’s really there, either. Not without his angel to anchor him. 

It pains him to think that he’ll probably never know what happened—if Aziraphale was frightened or hurt before he vanished. If Crowley were still an angel, they would have been able to feel each other’s emotions from a distance, and he would have known with certainty that something was wrong. But no such connection is possible between an angel and a demon. 

If they did kill Aziraphale, Crowley hopes it was so swift that he had no idea what was coming. He hopes they nabbed him and threw him right into hellfire before he could blink. But that doesn’t seem right. Because if Heaven and Hell had figured out the switch, wouldn’t they have flung Crowley into a bathtub rather than make him mortal? Maybe they merely wanted nothing to do with him anymore. 

Or perhaps he’s giving Hell too much credit. Wouldn’t be the first time.

If Aziraphale were here, Crowley thinks, he’d know how to put a positive spin on all this. He’d look on the bright side. He’d want to make the most of the time they had left. They would take care of each other. 

But he’s not here. And being a human alone is miserable.

***

After running out of alcohol and food, Crowley eventually has to leave the cottage, and his frail body trembles the whole time in the frigid autumn air. He also has to put petrol in the Bentley, which is new and annoying, but at least he has plenty of money. 

Not long after he and Aziraphale were married, Crowley was vaguely paranoid enough to miracle himself a private bank account with enough funds to last them several lifetimes, should the two of them ever need to “go off the grid” and get by with no miracles for a while. The thought felt odd enough that he never mentioned it to Aziraphale, and Crowley would have loved to have been wrong for ever worrying. 

He falls into a new habit of driving into the nearest town and stopping at a small pub, where he orders a pot pie and devours it while sitting by the fireplace. It’s honestly maddening, how hungry and tired and cold this body always seems to be. He thinks about how much Aziraphale would have enjoyed a winter day like this, all cozy in the ambiance; he fancied the eclairs at this particular pub, but Crowley hasn’t been able to bring himself to try one.

Crowley puts his face in his hands, rubbing them over his tired eyes and the strangely thick beard that has grown out of this human face. He used to be good at being alone. But that was before. When he was a demon on assignment, and he only saw Aziraphale a couple times per decade. That was before he knew what it was like to have a husband and a house and to be married and happy. 

He knows he has to figure out what he’s going to do. Because it can’t be _this_ forever. Or, well, the short time he has left until this body expires. But he decides to give himself winter to hibernate.

***

Spring comes as usual, still awfully cold in the mornings but increasingly more tolerable by the afternoon. 

One day after finishing another pub meal, he decides not to drive back to the miserably dull cottage. He heads toward the city, back to London, for the first time in nearly eight months. He and Aziraphale had been to see the symphony just a week before the incident, he recalls. He’s not sure what he’ll do when he gets there, but maybe simply being in London will help him determine some sort of direction. It has to be better than solitude, at least, if only for a while. He’s long heard of humans seeking purpose in their lives, but he never expected to obtain such an uncomfortably stark understanding of that need. 

It’s early evening when he arrives, and he catches a few odd looks when he emerges from his car—it’s not lost on him that he looks (and smells) like he lives on the street, in contrast to the Bentley. But hopefully that just means people will leave him alone. 

He naturally gravitates to their old stomping ground, wandering through St. James Park and past the Ritz, bustling with jolly guests in formal attire. Passing through the Soho area, he figures he’ll swing by the old bookshop, which they left behind with a _closed_ sign on the door and most of Aziraphale’s book collection relocated to his study at the cottage. Perhaps, Crowley thinks, he could reopen the place and turn it into a library or something similar. Something to keep his husband’s legacy alive and maybe earn his soul, if he has one, a few brownie points. 

Only, when that corner is in sight, it’s immediately clear that something isn’t right. The bookshop doesn’t look as it did when they left it at all—the old title is gone, for one thing, and the windows are covered from the inside with sheets of paper. Crowley hurries up the block toward it, alarmed that someone may have moved in during their absence.

He’s just made it to the intersection when the shop door opens, and he stops in his tracks. A man emerges from inside and then turns to lock the door behind him. He’s holding a large box that partly obscures his face, but Crowley would recognize that pale blonde hair anywhere. 

It is, unmistakably, Aziraphale, though he’s wearing a casual sweater and trousers Crowley has never seen. He tucks his keys into his pocket and then starts down the street with his box, as though it’s any other evening. Crowley is frozen in place. For a moment, he doesn’t know what to do. If Aziraphale is alive, why wouldn’t he have come home? But then, in the next instant, that doesn’t matter in the slightest and all that matters is not losing sight of him.

“Wait! Aziraphale!” he says, running as quickly as he can, which takes considerable effort.

Crowley darts diagonally across the intersection, ignoring the honking, and manages to gain a lot of ground. 

“Aziraphale!” he calls out again, when he’s certain he’s close enough to be heard. 

But Aziraphale doesn’t turn around. 

Pushing his legs as hard as he can, he runs ahead of him, passing him and whirling around, which brings them face to face. 

“Oh! Pardon me,” Aziraphale says, stepping around him, taking care not to drop his box. 

Crowley watches him go, dumbfounded. He wants to call after him—to say _Aziraphale, it’s me!_ —but he already knows it’s no use. Because if Aziraphale were still himself, he would have recognized him. A full beard and long, dirty hair wouldn’t work as a disguise for one second in the presence of his closest friend for more than six thousand years. 

For a moment, Crowley is tempted to follow, to not lose sight of him, to grab him by the shoulders and beg him to remember. But he can’t do that. Not smelling like this. 

He goes back to his car and heads home with a renewed mission in mind. He’s going to fix himself up, and then he’s going to return to London. And he’s going to get his husband back. 


	2. London Calling

Standing before his mirror, freshly shaved, Crowley realizes how different he truly looks and wonders if maybe Aziraphale _really_ didn’t recognize him. His face is gaunt, not unlike his frame after months of scarcely eating, and his dull human eyes look sunken and tired. It’s a rather marked difference from his old self.

It still doesn’t track, though, that Aziraphale would let all this time pass without coming back to their cottage if his memories were intact. Crowley feels a bit foolish for not having gone into the city sooner, but how could he have guessed that _Heaven will handle him_ translated to _Heaven will wipe his memories and relocate him_? It does seem likely that they’re both human now, but anything is possible, really.

He cuts his hair to just below his shoulders, since Aziraphale always liked it that way, and finds that his clothes are all a bit baggy before settling on a dark blue shirt paired with some old trousers. He doesn’t look as polished as he’d like for a reunion, but it’s no matter. When Aziraphale remembers what happened, he’ll understand. Crowley pauses when he comes to his wedding ring, still on his left hand, unsure if he should wear it. Ultimately, he decides to slip it off his finger and leave it behind; there’s just no way he could ever look Aziraphale in the eyes and lie to him about what it means.

The sun is rising as he drives back into London, newly hopeful this time. If he can get close to Aziraphale, talk to him, surely that will spark something. His angel will know him. He has to.

Back at the former bookshop, the street is much calmer in the early morning beneath the increasingly bright sky. Crowley figures he can peek into the window through a gap in the paper covering without drawing any suspicions, only to be deeply confused by what he sees inside: Bare white walls, some with vacant shelves, with various spotlights in the ceiling and boxes all about. It looks nothing like the old bookshop at all.

“May I help you?” comes a voice behind him. One that he’d know anywhere.

He turns and finds Aziraphale standing beside him, wearing an odd newsboy cap and looking puzzled.

“I … I came here some years ago,” Crowley tries, improvising. “I just got back to the city and thought I’d visit again, but—?”

“Ah,” Aziraphale says with a solemn nod. “Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but the gallery is permanently closed. You’re about eight months too late.”

Aziraphale is opening the door, then, and Crowley can see that he’s going to lose his window.

“I’m really sorry to hear that,” Crowley says. “I was … keen to visit again.”

_What the fuck am I even saying?_

Aziraphale gives him another sad look and seems to be thinking.

“Well, since you did come all this way,” he starts, “there are still a few stacks of his last work here, just inside. You’re welcome to come in and look through them if you like. No pressure to buy, of course.”

Crowley perks up at that. “I’d love that. I’d love to see them.”

And with that, he’s inside this strange little space. Crowley has walked through that door so many times, but nothing about this apparent former gallery feels the least bit familiar. Aziraphale shows him to the stacks of framed art near the window.

“Much appreciated,” he says, eyeing the paintings and trying to piece any of this together.

Aziraphale nods. “What did you say your name was?”

“Oh, I didn’t. I’m Anthony … Anthony Crowley.”

“Ezra Fell,” comes the reply, and he extends his hand.

Crowley manages to politely shake it and let go after a normal amount of time. Just afterward, he happens to catch sight of the silver ring on Aziraphale’s other hand—his left hand. A wedding band. And a different one than the two gold bands they chose together.

“The artist was Jay Fell, my late husband, if you don’t already know,” Azirapahle— _Ezra_ —goes on. “He passed last year, and now the lease on this place has finally run out, so I’m just getting things cleared away.”

“I’m … sorry for your loss,” Crowley says, taking a moment to process what he’s heard.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says. “Please take your time here. No rush at all.”

With that, he goes over to the opposite side of the room, where he's packing things into boxes. Crowley turns his attention to the paintings and is immediately intrigued by what he finds. Every single one is vaguely familiar in some way: An arc in a desert. A serpent in an apple tree. A radiant sunrise over the London skyline. The Ritz, as seen on a rainy evening. Ducks in the pond at the park.

These are not merely paintings, that is perfectly clear. They are _memories_ , shoved into a new context. Just like Aziraphale’s memory of their marriage has apparently been reworked—along with the physical reality of this gallery. The archangels really went all out in order to fuck up their happily-ever-after. Bastards.

Taking up a piece that depicts two ethereal, winged figures embracing against a backdrop of flowering vines—an easy choice if he ever made one—he steps over to where Ezra is working.

“I’d like to buy this one,” he says. “If it’s for sale.”

“Oh,” Ezra says, face instantly lighting up to see it in his hands. “Well, that’s wonderful. He spent a lot of time on that piece. It would make him happy to know it sold after all.”

“I’m sorry to know that he passed,” Crowley adds, newly inspired now that he understands the circumstances. “As I said, I came here many years ago and his work never left me.”

“I appreciate you telling me that.”

Crowley looks around at all the junk and rubbish lying about, all the cleaning that needs to be done.

“Could I … give you a hand here?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you for that.”

“It’s no trouble at all, really. I have nothing else to do today. I could help you clear it out in half the time.”

Ezra is giving him a look, then, like he’s slightly amused. “Well, alright, Mr. Crowley. Be my guest, if you’re so eager. But if you do happen to remember other plans ten minutes from now, I won’t question you.”

Crowely has never been so enthusiastic for manual labor in his life—he clears things off shelves and out of a workspace in the back, and then helps Ezra get everything packed into boxes or sorted into the rubbish. It turns out that Ezra has chronic back pain and difficulty climbing ladders or reaching overhead, and Crowley is happy to pick up that slack. They fall into polite conversation as they work together, about the weather and whatever. Crowley has to repeatedly remind himself not to call Ezra “angel,” since he suspects that wouldn’t land right after just meeting.

He can tell this is going to take a gentle and cautious approach—Ezra is in mourning and has memories of an imaginary human life, so Crowley needs to play along with that lest he come across as completely mad. He dearly wishes he had come back to London sooner, but now that he’s here, he’s ready to do whatever it takes to be together again.

“Are you certain you didn’t fall from heaven?” Ezra asks sometime later as they’re taking a break.

Crowley’s heart does a little flip.

“I wouldn’t say I _fell_ ,” he says, wholly unable to resist. “More like I … stumbled vaguely downward.”

“Oh,” says Ezra with a sympathetic chucke. “Well, lucky for me that you landed right here.”

Crowley just nods. It’s so wonderful to be talking to him again, to hear him laugh, but he also has to suppress a need to pull him into his arms and sob for how much he missed him.

“You said you’ve just moved back to London, then?” Ezra asks.

“That’s right,” Crowley answers, scrambling to flesh out his backstory. “I … lived here a while when I was younger. And then I lived south of here for some time. I fell in with … Well, with some bad people. So, this is a fresh start of sorts.”

He’s hoping that didn’t sound too shady or vague, but Aziraphale is giving him a warm smile.

“Good for you,” he says, earnestly. “It’s never too late.”

With several boxes packed and the sun starting to set, Ezra decides they’ve reached a stopping point for the night. It turns out that he needs to take them to his flat, just a block away, so Crowley offers to help carry them.

And with that, they’re on their way. Interesting, Crowley muses, that Ezra’s flat is a block over rather than above the shop.

After climbing the stairs to his floor, Ezra pauses before unlocking the door.

“I must apologize for how untidy it is in here. I haven’t been keeping up with cleaning much lately.”

“No matter,” Crowley says. “I’m certain I’ve seen worse.”

Even with that preemptive apology, Crowley’s heart sinks to step inside and see Ezra’s living space. There are piles all over, of books and magazines and boxes and knick-knacks, so that he has to step around them, and the only place to set the new boxes is by the kitchen, where he eyes a sink overflowing with dishes.

He keeps his expression straight, as though he doesn’t notice. Aziraphale was never the overly neat sort, but Crowley knows him well enough to know that he must be mortified for someone to see his flat in this state.

They’re promptly outside again, and they make a few more trips with boxes. Crowley has the sneaking suspicion that they won’t be moved or unpacked anytime soon, unless someone offers to help with that part, too.

On their final trip to the kitchen, Ezra turns to him.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m famished,” he says. “And, unfortunately, I don’t have my husband’s talent for cooking. But I do hope you’ll let me buy you supper, to thank you for all your help today.”

Crowley’s ears perk up at the bit about Ezra’s husband being a great cook, but all he can really think about is how _fantastic_ food sounds right now.

“That sounds lovely,” he agrees, feeling his stomach rumble just after.

***

Ezra leads him to a modest cafe just down the block. Crowley doesn’t remember ever visiting this particular one before, so he can’t be sure if it was always here or if it’s another addition to Ezra’s odd human life.

They settle into a corner booth, and Crowley belatedly realizes how tired he is after the day of work. After they place their orders, he notices that Ezra looks a bit nervous, chewing his lip and fidgeting as he glances around at the walls.

“You alright?”

Ezra sighs at that, taking a sip of water before he answers.

“To be perfectly honest, I’ve been avoiding this place,” he says, a slight quiver creeping into his voice. “Jay and I used to have lunch here every Saturday. We were meant to come on the day he died, in fact, after he returned from his morning bike ride. But he didn’t return, of course.”

“Oh ... shit,” Crowley says on pure impulse. “I’m sorry. We can go somewhere else, if that’s better?”

“No, no,” Ezra says, holding up his hand. “This is alright. Being here with company is much nicer than coming alone. Besides, I really like this place and it’s practically next door, so I really ought to get past that. Even if I can’t get past anything else.”

Crowley nods, thinking of the months he spent cooped up in the cottage. He so wishes they could comfort each other. That gives him an idea.

“Not to pry,” he says. “But would you like to share how the two of you met?”

That gets him a smile. Bingo.

The stories that follow confirm his theory beyond a shadow of a doubt. Ezra’s memories of “Jay” are clearly of Crowley, but reworked to follow a more typical human narrative. Ezra explains how the two of them met in an apple orchard when they were younger, and the way Jay helped him adjust his plastic poncho since it was starting to rain. They were friends for a while before they admitted their true feelings for one another, and then twenty years ago, they finally moved in together and got married and lived happily together for a time. In addition to his artwork, Jay had a passion for music and theology, while Ezra preferred history and literature—he was a professor for some time, in fact, before he left that behind to help Jay run his gallery, and he finds it a bit surreal to think that he may have to return to teaching soon.

Ezra’s stories carry them through their full meal, and he’s smiling as he talks between bites of soup, dabbing his eyes with his napkin a few times. Crowley feels a lump in his own throat to see how much Ezra misses his husband.

 _I’m right here_ , he wants to say. _You’re not alone._

“Oh, my,” Ezra says when he’s reached the bottom of his bowl. “‘I’ve really talked this whole time, haven’t I? You’re so kind to listen.”

“Not at all, I enjoyed hearing about him. I really appreciate you sharing all this with me.”

Ezra smiles. “I’m glad we met today, Anthony.”

“Me, too.”

“If you’d still like the painting, it’s all yours. I can’t possibly charge you after how much you’ve helped me.”

“That’s very generous,” Crowley says, wishing Ezra would let him pay for something. “I’m glad I could help. I’ll come back tomorrow and help you finish.”

“Oh my goodness, no! I can’t possibly ask you to do that. Surely you have somewhere to be tomorrow.”

Crowley abruptly feels deflated, saddened at how strategic he has to be just to spend more time with Ezra.

“I don’t, honestly,” he says, forcing a polite smile.

“But you’ve only just relocated. Why would you want to spend your time helping me?”

_Because you’re the only reason I’m here and I love you and we’re married if you’d just remember me, goddamnit, you wouldn’t have to ask me impossible questions like this._

“Because I’m alone,” Crowley says, hating how pathetic it sounds but struggling to think of a better answer. “I’m alone, too. I didn’t expect to find you when I came here. But now that I have, I’d really like to keep helping you, if that’s alright.”

Ezra gives him another kind smile, perhaps considering him in a new light, and agrees.

“It’s certainly alright,” he says. “And greatly appreciated.”

After Crowley walks him back to his flat and they say their goodbyes, he continues down the road back to where he parked. London has a charming energy in the glowy evening; he’d almost forgotten. When he’s reached the next block, he throws his hands up in the air in silent celebration. Aziraphale may not remember him, yet, but Crowley has _found_ him and they had a nice day together. This is far and away better than the past eight months.

Scooting into the driver’s seat of his car, it suddenly hits him that he hasn’t _actually_ moved back to London yet, and he laughs an exhausted laugh. There’s no way in Heaven he’s driving all the way back to the South Downs tonight. The cottage doesn’t hold much current appeal, anyway. Using his mobile phone, he finds a hotel with vacancies nearby and drives over, planning to see about leasing a flat first thing in the morning.

But first, sleep. Crowley collapses into the hotel bed and is swiftly unconscious.

***

As Ezra gets ready to turn in for the night, he smiles about the kind stranger who turned up on his doorstep. He hopes he’s done the right thing by accepting his help and isn’t taking advantage.

 _How could you be taking advantage?_ he imagines Jay asking, as though he’s still there brushing his teeth beside him. _He offered to help you, and you need help._

“Yes, that’s true,” Ezra says aloud. “Perhaps it’s a good thing for both of us.”

Anthony did say he was new in town and alone. He’s actively seeking a new direction for his life, and Ezra admires the courage required to make such a change.

_He’s pretty handsome, too._

“Yes, alright, I did notice that as well,” he says as he gets into bed. “Although he’s quite thin, isn’t he? Poor dear. At least he finished his supper.”

Ezra can’t seem to break the habit of speaking out loud. The flat is just too quiet otherwise. He gets situated in bed and sets his wedding ring on the nightstand.

“Goodnight, darling.”

That night, Ezra has an oddly curious dream. In it, Anthony is assisting him at the gallery again, only this time, they’ve discovered an extra closet full of books that Ezra had forgotten—no such closet exists in real life, of course, but Anthony seems eager to see what’s inside.

Even stranger is that, for the entire dream, Anthony is wearing sunglasses.


	3. Yes

Crowley awakens to sunlight spilling in through the gaps in the curtains and realizes he didn’t even bother to take off his shoes before passing out. He starts to get up and finds that his _entire_ body is terribly sore and stiff—genuinely from his head to his toes. He’s never felt anything like it, and his immediate response is to panic-laugh as he wrenches himself out of bed. 

For a brief moment, he’s a bit concerned about his ability to continue working in this state. But he’s not going to let the day pass without seeing Ezra and following through on his promise to keep helping, so his muscles are just going to have to adapt to this whole “being useful” thing. 

After taking a hot shower and remembering to drink some fucking water—he keeps relearning how much constant hydration this body demands—he feels a bit better. And then it dawns on him that he only has the clothes he wore yesterday, and won’t it be strange if he shows up in those again? 

Being a human is so exhausting.

After a dreadful but productive shopping excursion that leaves sacks of clothes piled into the Bentley, Crowley is completely famished. Again. So, he stops for a late breakfast, using his phone to look up available flats nearby while he eats. It should feel tedious, he thinks, all this work just to appear normal, but it’s actually invigorating to be working toward a specific goal again.

When he’s found a place that seems suitable enough, it dawns on him that he ought to research something else too: grief. If he’s going to endear himself to Ezra, he needs to do more than just carry boxes, and that means understanding his current mindset. As he reads, he finds that many of the passages resonate deeply with how he felt in solitude; he had just never bothered to attempt to understand.

It occurs to him, belatedly, that he could have said he had also lost his husband recently. He could have given him that common ground, that immediate point for bonding. But it’s too late now, isn’t it? It would be odd to bring it up after all they’ve talked about. And aside from that, he’s already going to have to lie enough when it comes to his background as Ordinary Human Anthony. He doesn’t want to lie to Aziraphale about his memories of their time together, as well. That would be too much. So, this is for the best, he decides. Until Ezra remembers, he’ll strive to become his trusted friend. Any other course of action is unimaginable. 

By the early afternoon, Crowley has a flat in his name—when you have enough money, you can get humans to do almost anything extremely quickly—and a new laptop computer, since researching things on his phone is getting tiresome. He quickly schedules deliveries of a few important items, like a bed and a sofa, so that his place isn’t completely barren. It’s actually nice, he muses, to have this fresh start. He has no intention of ever returning to the lonely cottage without Aziraphale. 

Walking back to the gallery in breezy sunshine, Crowley feels more optimistic than he has in a long time. But when he finds the door unlocked and steps inside, he finds Ezra crying. 

“Oh, hello Anthony,” he says, sniffing. “Pardon me a moment.”

He turns away to blow his nose. Crowley’s heart hurts for him. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he says, turning back and stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket. “It’s just that it’s so empty now, you see.”

Crowley does see, and he wishes he had seen before. He felt so accomplished after they’d cleared the stuff away, it never dawned on him that Ezra would be hurt by the loss of the gallery itself. He should have known. 

“It must feel so strange to you like this.”

_It certainly does to me._

Ezra nods, glancing around at the walls. “He loved coming here; he was so proud to display his work. But, well, all things must come to an end.”

“Have you thought about … repurposing it in some way?” Crowley tries. “A bookshop, perhaps.”

Ezra looks slightly amused by that suggestion for a moment. 

“Now there’s an interesting thought. But, no, I decided not to renew the lease. There’s just no need to keep spending the money. I don’t have Jay’s people skills, anyhow.”

Crowley has to fight a smile at that last bit. He’d like to offer to foot the bill, to let Ezra keep this place, but he knows he needs to tread lightly. 

The main work left to do is to clean, so Crowley helps by sweeping and wiping the windows, while Ezra takes rubbish to the bin out back. Unlike the day before, they’re finished in a couple hours. 

Crowley gives Ezra a cautious glance as they survey the tidy, vacant space. 

“Well, I guess that’s that, then,” Ezra says a bit sadly before turning and facing Crowley. “It certainly did go much faster with your help. I can’t thank you enough. If there’s any way I can return the favor while you’re getting settled, please let me know.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Crowley says, scrambling for something, anything, he could request. “Truly, I’m glad I got here when I did. I’m glad I was able to help.”

There’s one final box to carry back to Ezra’s flat, and Crowley nearly falls over himself insisting on picking it up. As they walk around the block, he’s nervous. He needs a reason to keep seeing Ezra. Some way to stay connected. He needs to secure another invite back to his place after this one, or he’s going to have to resort to stalking him or something. That won’t do. 

Back in Ezra’s messy flat, it dawns on Crowley that he should have used the gallery lavatory before they left; all that water he’s been drinking has caught up to him. 

“Would you mind terribly if I run to your loo?”

“Not at all, please go ahead,” Ezra says, gesturing in the direction. “Just around the corner there.”

It turns out to be adjacent to a pair of sliding doors that lead to an outside balcony, and Crowley realizes how lucky it is that he has this excuse to explore the flat a little further. Never has he been happier to need a toilet. 

After the loo, he gets another peak out the window. It looks to be a spacious porch balcony, or it would be, if more than half of it hadn’t been converted into what looks like a walk-in greenhouse. 

“Is that a greenhouse I see out there?” Crowley asks, coming back to the living room, where he discovers that Ezra is pouring two cups of tea. 

“Oh, yes,” he says with a little sigh. “Those were Jay’s plants. I haven’t been good at keeping them in top shape as he did, I’m afraid. Care for some tea?”

“Certainly, thank you,” Crowley says, taking a seat at the kitchen island. 

They sip their tea in silence for a few moments, and Crowley can’t help but feel that it’s a comfortable type of quiet. Ezra breaks the silence with polite small talk, though, asking if he’s found a place yet, and Crowley is glad he can answer honestly, giving the location of his apartment—which isn’t too far from here, it turns out, by some neat coincidence. 

“Not to pry,” Crowley says when they’ve finished their tea. “But could I see the greenhouse, perhaps? I’ve a bit of a green thumb myself.” 

“Oh… Well, certainly. Only, prepare to be a bit underwhelmed by the state of things.”

Ezra leads him to the balcony, then, and Crowley can tell he probably feels a bit obligated, but he really doesn’t want this visit to end. They step outside and Ezra opens the door to the charming little space, bordered by transparent walls and arranged with a brilliant assortment of tired-looking plants. 

He starts inside, touching a few of them on impulse, and hears Ezra sigh behind him. 

“I know I should probably just get rid of them,” he says. “But I haven’t been able to get around to it. I don’t really like coming out here and seeing how miserable they all look. He spent so much time tending to them. It was so _fun_ to him.”

Crowley is further down the table, now, looking at some well-potted hydrangeas with withered leaves but strong stems. 

“For what it’s worth, most of these are still salvageable,” he says, pulling off a few dead leaves and tossing them aside. “They could bounce back with the right attention.”

Ezra gives a little chuckle. “He would have liked you… In fact, that reminds me. Pardon me a moment.”

Crowley nods, still preoccupied with the plants. They’re all a bit neglected, but it’s a great-looking collection with a lovely herb garden on one side. Glancing at the patio area outside, he spots a watering can and makes the quick decision to grab it—and just his luck, it’s full of rainwater. So, he gets to watering and discarding a few more dead leaves. Perhaps this is his ticket back, he thinks. 

When he’s finished tending the plants, though, he realizes a good deal of time has passed and Ezra still hasn’t returned, so he steps back inside. 

“I hope it’s alright that I watered a few—” he starts and stops, realizing that Ezra is standing in the living room crying again. “Oh. Are you alright?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to ruin the moment. I just … wanted to find a picture of Jay, to show you, but … I can’t find the box.”

He throws up his arms, gesturing at the general state of the living room. 

“I had to put the photos away,” he goes on, “because they were all making me too sad. But now I’m afraid they’re lost or … gone with the rubbish by mistake.”

“Surely not,” Crowley says, cautiously stepping closer. “They must be here somewhere.”

Just as he says it, he realizes that the photos in Ezra’s memory may not actually exist, and his chest feels heavy with the thought. 

“But of course I can’t keep track of them,” he says, no less upset. “I can’t manage anything without him.”

Crowley cannot take it anymore. He makes the slightly risky move of stepping forward to embrace him. It’s much gentler than he’d ever be with Aziraphale; he tries his best to hug him like an acquaintance.

Fortunately, Ezra quickly accepts it, leaning into him and returning the embrace. Relieved, Crowley strokes his back. 

“It’ll be alright. I’ll help you look, hmm?”

 _There better be a picture_. _Let him have a fucking picture, you arseholes._

As he helps Ezra calm down, though, Crowley starts to wonder what that picture would even _look_ like. If Jay bears a striking resemblance to him … well, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it?

“What sort of box are we looking for?” Crowley asks after they’ve let go of each other. 

Ezra shrugs in a defeated way. “That’s just the thing: I don’t remember.”

Crowley nods, surveying the clutter before them. 

“Here’s a thought,” he says, trying to stay upbeat. “Let’s clean. Together. I’ll help you get everything straightened up, and they’ll _have_ to turn up before we’re finished.”

Ezra gives him a look. 

“What?” Crowley says. “You ought not do this alone with your back trouble, anyway. I’m really good at cleaning.”

“Anthony, you’ve already done so much for me. I can hardly ask you to clean my home, too.”

“You’re not asking, I’m right here offering.”

“Well, that’s very generous, but I’m going to say no.”

“Why?” Crowley asks, perhaps a bit sadly. 

“Because… Because I don’t need you to make me your charity case, alright?”

Ezra’s tone is gentle, but the words hurt. All at once, there’s an awful lump in Crowley’s throat, and his eyes sting a bit. As a demon, Crowley had experienced his sense of self in layers. There was the physical body he inhabited, temporarily, on Earth. It needed light maintenance to stay comfortable and not-distracting. Separate from that was Crowley the demon, the being he became when he stepped back into Hell, always calculating. Then, there was his original form, the actual essence of him, his true self that was detached from all of this. 

But as a human, he’s finding that the layers have merged into one flat self. There aren’t any neat distinctions between his mind and his body and his emotions. It’s all blurred, now. When he feels things, he feels them at the surface, throughout his body, in a way that wasn’t true before. 

“Can I be yours, then?” he asks, and this time it definitely sounds more pathetic than he intends. 

Ezra gives him a sad smile at that. “Clever.”

“I only mean,” Crowley says, taking a breath, “I _want_ to help you find the pictures. I want to help you clean up, just a bit. I’ve been low before. Really, really low. And I’m not saying it’s exactly the same for you. But I see you, and I really like you, and I want to help. And if we could maybe become friends, too, that would be lovely, because I haven’t got any.”

At that, Ezra comes forward and squeezes Crowley’s arm. “Yes, you do.”

Afterward, he looks around at his place and then laughs to himself. “It really is a bloody disaster, yeah? I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this, but alright.”

“Good. You won’t regret this, I’m sure.”

“You might.”

“Put some music on if you like,” Crowley says, ignoring that. “Something … upbeat.”

“Not a bad idea.”

Ezra goes over to his stereo cabinet and finds a record to play. When the first bars come out of the speakers, Crowley takes a moment to place it. _I’ve seen all good people turn their heads each way / So satisfied, I’m on my way._ It’s the band Yes. So, it could be worse, but not by much. 

“How’s this?” Ezra asks.

“Perfect.”

As they clean, Crowley has to admit that the general tone of the music does actually seem to suit Aziraphale—the cheerful vibe, the singer’s oddly cute voice, the church-organ-sounding-thing. After a few songs, he’s started humming along, sleeves now rolled to his elbows. 

As they sort through the piles and stacks, designating a significant portion to rubbish and making smaller _keeping_ piles for the rest, the task turns out to be a trip down memory lane for Ezra. Everything reminds him of something he and Jay did together, and he’s talking nearly nonstop as they go. Some of the memories ring true, like the two of them drinking wine and talking until the wee hours of the morning, while Crowley can’t make sense of the others, like the idea that Jay did volunteer work or that he tried competitive cycling a couple times. 

“Oh, my, that’s awfully dusty, isn’t it?” Ezra remarks as Crowley stands on a stepladder to retrieve a random stack of books from a high shelf so that Ezra can take them to his study. “Jay was always so good at keeping things tidy. My study down the hall has always been a bit of a disaster, but he kept the rest of the flat in order. It never looked like this while he was here.”

Just as he’s trying to think of a response, Crowley’s hand bumps something else tucked into the shelf. Reaching in, he finds a box and hoists it out. It’s labeled _photos_. 

“Look here,” he says, turning on the ladder. “Is this it?”

“Oh! I think so!” Ezra says, reaching to take it. “What an odd place to have left it.”

Crowley steps down and hands it to him, hopeful. Sitting on the sofa, Ezra opens the dusty lid and smiles. 

“Yes, here they are! Oh, there’s my Jay.” 

Crowley takes a seat beside him as Ezra looks fondly at the framed photo. He passes it to Crowley, then, and Crowley braces himself. Given the situation, he’s glad he has the fortitude not to burst into laughter at what he sees there inside the metal frame: It’s Ezra, looking very much like himself in his tweed jacket and newsboy cap, and beside him is a man with Crowley’s basic facial structure, but the resemblance stops there. Because it looks a bit like he’s cosplaying James Dean, with slicked-back brunette hair and a ridiculous leather jacket. 

It is, without a doubt, one of the funniest fucking things Crowley has ever seen. 

“What a great shot,” he offers, but Ezra has already moved on through three more pictures. 

“Oh! Look here. Our anniversary.”

He shoves another into Crowley’s hands, and this one is much better: The two of them are in suits at a candlelit table. 

“The Ritz,” Crowley observes. 

“Ah, you recognize it! Yes, he surprised me that year. Incredible place.”

Thinking about the Ritz has Crowley’s gears turning. He can’t outright invite Ezra there; that’s too formal and this is too new, and he also hasn’t admitted that he’s fucking loaded. But Aziraphale _loves_ gourmet cooking. And Ezra surely misses his husband’s cooking. Somehow, Crowley can work with this. He just needs to find a way to frame it as Ezra doing _him_ a favor—that’s the key.

But first there are more photos to see, and Crowley is happy to listen as Ezra goes through them, smiling all the while. 

“Thank you for finding this,” Ezra says afterward. “And … oh, gracious me. Thank you for listening while I talked your ear off all day. I know I … I know I talk about him a lot.”

“No thanks needed,” Crowleys responds. “Anything that makes you smile so much.”

That last bit was overly fond, he realizes a moment too late. 

“Well,” Ezra says with an awkward little chuckle, replacing the lid on the box. “Much appreciated all the same.”

Crowley is swiftly up to finish cleaning the living room before Ezra can protest. Interesting, he reflects, that Ezra has photos that never happened, paintings that were never painted. The archangels really went all-in on this illusion, apparently. But when Aziraphale finally remembers, perhaps they’ll laugh about all this together. 

After taking out the rubbish bags, Crowley steps into the kitchen to wash his hands. That space still needs cleaning, but that’s a job for another day. As he uses the sink, soapy water running over the pile of dishes, he remembers: Jay loved to cook. The kitchen must be well stocked with equipment, to match up with that false memory. 

Finally, he has a _brilliant_ idea.


	4. Culinary Adventures

Ezra returns with supper—two boring sandwiches from a place down the street, which he insisted on fetching—and finds Anthony asleep on the sofa.

He sighs, setting the sack on the coffee table, and hesitates a moment. Anthony must be completely exhausted. Ezra is tired, and he barely did much of anything. He can’t help but feel a bit guilty, even though Anthony was so insistent upon helping him.

Ezra does wonder about that. It seems likely that Anthony is looking for an anchor in his life, and perhaps he’s the sort of person who needs someone to care for. It’s also pretty clear that he fancies Ezra, at least a little, which is an uncomfortable thought. Not because it’s unrequited, but the exact opposite. Ezra never expected to have a crush on someone so soon, and the notion that he might stirs an odd mix of emotions.

“Anthony,” he says, nudging his shoulder. “Anthony?”

Anthony stirs. “Hmm? What? Oh. Did I fall asleep? Sorry.”

“No matter at all. You must be awfully tired. Here.”

He hands him one of the sandwiches, which Anthony sits up to take.

“Thank you,” he says, quickly unwrapping it and taking a big bite. He must be famished, too.

“Not exactly gourmet,” Ezra says, dropping into the chair beside the sofa. “But it’ll do in a pinch.”

Anthony nods. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

After that, he seems to recall something, setting his sandwich in its wrapper on the coffee table and adjusting to face Ezra.

“That reminds me, actually. I wanted to ask: How many times have you been to the Ritz?”

“Only a couple,” Ezra answers. “One for an anniversary, another for my birthday. Not something we could afford to make a habit of.”

Anthony nods. “I’ve never told anyone this, but … I’d actually love to be a chef at a restaurant like that. A lofty goal, to be sure, but it’s part of why I decided to move back to London. I love cooking, and maybe I can find my way in.”

“Wow,” Ezra remarks. “That is a lofty goal, certainly, and an admirable one.”

“The thing is,” Anthony says, “I need to practice. And practicing would be a lot more fun if I had someone to cook for.”

Ezra starts to laugh so abruptly that he nearly chokes on the bite of sandwich he’s chewing.

“What?” Anthony asks, perhaps a bit defensive.

“No,” Ezra says, shaking his head. “I’m not laughing at your dream. It’s just … you’ve spent two whole days helping me clean the gallery and this room and now you also want to cook meals for me?”

“You’d be doing me a _huge_ favor. Your kitchen would make such an excellent practice space, too. Couldn’t help but notice.”

Ezra hums at that. Anthony is certainly very clever and rather keen on being friends. And the idea of eating a lot of home-cooked meals again sounds so wonderful he could cry.

“I suppose I’d have to be mad to refuse, wouldn’t I?”

“No pressure,” Anthony says. “I don’t mean to come on too strong, really.”

Ezra stands, then, and moves over to sit beside him on the couch.

“Listen,” he says. “It’s a lovely idea. I just want to be sure we’re on the same page: I’m not quite ready for a new romantic relationship. I don’t know that I’ll ever be. It’s not a commentary on you; I assure you of that. Only on myself.”

“Oh,” Anthony says, eyes wide. “That’s perfectly fine; I have no expectations. I mean, I do really like you, but w-we only met yesterday and you’re in a rough spot… But I’d just like us to become friends. I’m n-not trying to seduce you! Not that I would never _want_ to, but not now, and also not ever, either, is perfectly fine with me.”

Ezra takes his hand before he full-on panics, wondering if perhaps it would have been best to leave certain things unsaid.

“Good. I just wanted to be sure I wasn’t misleading you.”

“Not at all,” Anthony replies, though his cheeks are flushed.

“Then I look forward to our culinary adventure.”

***

The first time Crowley cooks for Ezra, he makes a lasagna. A small part of him hopes it will trigger a memory, but even failing that, it feels like a safe choice. What he does not anticipate is that Aziraphale’s newly human stomach might respond differently to foods—after they’ve eaten, he’s clearly uncomfortable but reluctant to say why.

A short time later, Crowley finds himself sprinting down the block to the nearest pharmacy in search of medication for acid reflux. Ezra looks sheepish when he sees that Crowley has returned with _five_ options, but his relief after taking one is swift and apparent.

The second time Crowley cooks for Ezra, he makes a stew and dumplings, plus tarts for after, which is all much more well received. The two of them talk and drink long after their plates are empty, and Crowley stays so late that Ezra offers for him to spend the night on the sofa. Crowley is more than happy to stay and reassures Ezra when he frets about the sofa being old and uncomfortable.

The third time Crowley cooks for Ezra, it’s breakfast the following morning. He gets up early to fetch the supplies from a nearby grocer, and the alluring scent has Ezra awake and poking his head into the kitchen in no time.

“How did you sleep?” he asks, post-bed curls adorably unkempt.

Crowley has dearly missed seeing him like this.

“Oh, perfectly well,” he lies; the sofa required lots of repositioning. “Thank you.”

“This is the most delicious breakfast I’ve had in a long time,” Ezra says. “Thank _you_ for spoiling me.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

Ezra looks like he has more to say, but he goes on eating his toast instead. Crowley heads home for a shower around lunch time, and then he comes back in the evening and they play cards and talk over tea, finishing the leftover stew and dumplings for supper.

Sitting on the sofa that night, Ezra has just finished telling yet another story about Jay—apparently Ezra once burned a casserole so thoroughly that the fire squad showed up and Jay arrived home moments later, terribly alarmed at the sight—when he seems to realize himself and sighs.

“I have an endless supply of stories about him,” he says, semi-apologetically.

“Of course you do,” Crowley says. “I like hearing them.”

Ezra smiles. “Sometimes … Sometimes, I think. Well, oh, I shouldn’t tell you that.”

“Tell me.”

“Oh ... I know how ridiculous this sounds. But sometimes I feel like perhaps he sent you to find me. Because he knew just what I needed, as always.”

Crowley has to swallow before he speaks. “Maybe he did.”

Ezra shakes his head, smiling at the floor.

“I hadn’t come to London in a long time before I met you,” Crowley adds. “Doesn’t seem ridiculous to me.”

Ezra reaches over and covers Crowley’s hand, and when he looks at him again, his expression has shifted. Crowley knows this face. It’s Aziraphale’s _I’m-going-to-kiss-you_ face. He is so thoroughly not expecting this to happen so soon that he nearly panics, but he manages to avoid leaping off the sofa in shock.

Just like that, Ezra leans in and very softly pecks Crowley’s mouth. Crowley shifts toward him, only slightly, not wanting to appear overly eager. Ezra kisses him again, more boldly this time, holding Crowley by the shoulders. Crowley returns the affection, since he’s not going to reject him, but all the while his mind is replaying what Ezra said about not being ready for this.

Ezra breaks away from the kiss as abruptly as he started it.

“Oh my,” he says. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve had too much wine.”

“That’s alright,” Crowley says.

“No, it isn’t,” Ezra says, rubbing his hands over his face and keeping them there. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

It takes Crowley a beat to realize Ezra is crying. He has no idea what to say, so he takes a box of tissues on the coffee table and moves it closer.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra repeats, taking a tissue. “I really don’t _mean_ to ruin so many moments; it’s just a natural talent.”

“You’re not ruining anything.”

Ezra scoffs through his clogged nose. “Wouldn’t you rather date someone who isn’t a complete mess?”

Crowley’s eyes are a bit blurry, too, even as he wills himself to maintain composure.

“No,” he says. “I don’t … I don’t care about dating. We don’t have to do any of that. I just want to get to know you.”

“Why?” Ezra asks, and it’s a sincere question, not a challenge.

Crowley knows he needs a damned good answer. Something that makes sense, preferably.

_Because I’ve known you for six thousand years and I have no idea who I am without you? Because your dead husband is actually me? Because you’re already the love of my life and I just need you to fucking remember that?_

“Because,” he says aloud, “I’ll regret it forever if I don’t.”

At that, Ezra sighs, regarding him for a moment, and then takes his hand again. “Well. We can’t have that, now, can we?”

Crowley covers his hand, clasping it between both of his own.

“I know I’m sending you all sorts of mixed signals,” Ezra says. “But could we just … sit together like this? For a while?”

“Of course we can. I’d like that.”

Ezra moves close enough to lean against him, and Crowley pulls him into a gentle embrace. They stay there in silence for some time.

“This is nice,” Ezra says softly. “Thank you.”

“It is,” Crowley agrees.

***

A few weeks pass, but for Crowley, it feels more like a few months. Time feels different when there’s so much to do every single day. Eat, sleep, bathe, repeat.

Preparing supper at Ezra’s place has become routine, and Crowley has the greenhouse thriving. The two of them fall into easy conversation each day, as though they’ve been getting on just like this for years, and Ezra normally greets him with an embrace or the occasional peck on the cheek. It’s downright chaste compared to how Aziraphale behaved after they were married, but Crowley doesn’t mind in the slightest. It’s wonderful to see him feeling happier, to be together again in any way.

All the while, though, it pains him to think of how their time together has an expiration date, now, and every day that goes by is another day without the _real_ Aziraphale. Crowley tries to bring up topics that might steer him toward remembering—a little theology, a little history—but everything just gets him talking about Jay again.

Crashing on Ezra’s sofa has also become semi-routine, since Crowley ends up there every few nights, which means breakfast together in the morning, so enduring the lumpy couch is more than worth it.

One morning, Crowley accidentally sleeps so late on the sofa that he wakes up to find out that Ezra has already had cereal for breakfast, and he can hardly forgive himself.

“You looked so peaceful; I decided not to wake you just yet,” Ezra says, smiling.

“Yes, but the alternative was cold cereal.”

“Cereal is a perfectly good breakfast on occasion. You don’t have to cook _every_ meal for me.”

Crowley sighs and sits next to him in the kitchen. Ezra looks lovely as always in his pale blue robe and slippers.

“Would you like some, sweetie?” Ezra says, holding up the box.

“Alright,” Crowley says with a defeated shrug.

The cereal is actually pretty good since he’s so hungry, but he doesn’t feel like admitting that out loud. Ezra is giving him an odd sort of look, like he’s trying to find the right time to say something. Crowley figures he’ll wait for him to get there.

“Anthony,” he starts in a newly serious tone. “I need to ask you something.”

Crowley meets his gaze and nods.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit intrusive of me, but I’d be remiss not to ask.”

“Sure. You can ask me anything.”

Ezra nods, though he appears no less uncertain. “I really hope you don’t mind. It’s just... When was the last time you were tested?”

Crowley blinks. “Tested?”

“For HIV?” he adds gently.

“Oh,” Crowley says, mind racing to catch up. “I … erm.”

“I’m never going to pry into your past. I just want to be sure you’re taking care of yourself.”

Crowley has no reason to think his human body could be carrying a virus, but then again, he’s never technically been tested for anything at all.

“It’s been a long time, to be perfectly honest.”

Ezra nods, as though he suspected as much. “Well, if you’d like to be tested now, I can recommend a wonderful clinic nearby. Jay made regular donations; they do such excellent work for the community.”

 _Community_ , Crowley repeats in his mind. _Right. Gay_. It was never lost on him that he and Aziraphale were perceived as such as husbands, but he’s never outright applied the term to himself. Humans have a knack for labeling every possible aspect of life, though.

“I really appreciate that,” Crowley says. “I’ll absolutely go and be tested.”

Ezra reaches over and covers his hand. “Good. And, not to jump ahead, but there are so many resources for people who are positive. So many supplements and things they can do to stay healthy these days. I’d just … Well, I’d hate to think that you might need any of them and not realize it, you understand? I do hope this isn’t too forward of me.”

It dawns on Crowley, belatedly, that Ezra must be concerned for Crowley’s health because he is so alarmingly thin. It’s touching to think that he fought through extreme awkwardness to raise this topic.

“Not at all,” Crowley says. “I’m really glad you asked, truly. I’ve always been a beanpole, though, if that eases your mind at all.”

Ezra smiles at that.

They make plans to go to the clinic together, but Crowley decides he needs to go this one alone. He’s really not sure what to expect from a screening, and he wants some time to revise his backstory if needed. So, that afternoon, instead of going straight to his flat, he makes his way over to the address Ezra gave him and tries his luck at a walk-in appointment.

The small waiting area has a rainbow flag hanging on the wall, and about half the seats inside are taken. The people waiting are a diverse mix of ages and ethnic backgrounds, and the word _community_ comes to mind again. He knows full well how awfully humans treat anyone who deviates from the miserable status quo, but somehow for the first time, he feels a kinship that he didn’t expect. In retrospect, he understands why Aziraphale was reluctant to leave Soho when they moved to the South Downs. It wasn’t only the food or the bustling city; it was the people here.

After waiting about an hour, they’re able to get him in for full STD testing, which requires blood and urine samples, plus a cheek swab. Being human is consistently messy. He’s asked to wait for the results so that a counselor can discuss them with him, which is oddly suspenseful.

But when she appears, she’s smiling, and Crowley is amazed by the level of relief he feels. He’s negative for everything, so at least he doesn’t have to go back to Ezra with bad news.

“Now, there’s no obligation of course,” the counselor is saying in closing, “but if you’d like to make a donation to the clinic before you leave—”

“Yes,” Crowley says, interrupting her. “How do I donate?”

***

Ezra takes his seat in a booth at a pub and watches the door for Anthony. They agreed that they would meet for supper tonight, mainly to give Anthony a break from cooking and get out of the flat for a change.

He hopes he did the right thing by bringing up the test earlier—but there was just no way he wasn’t going to say something. He’s known too many people lost to that dreadful illness, and with Anthony’s thin frame and past struggles, he started to wonder. Not that any of that is a surefire sign, of course. But it never hurts to check.

Anthony appears shortly and waves as he comes over. Just as he sits down, he produces a slip of paper.

“Guess who’s clean?” he asks with a smile.

It takes Ezra a moment to connect the dots; they’d agreed to go together tomorrow.

“What? You’ve already gone?” he asks, taking the paper.

“Figured I’d get it over with, so you wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Negative all the way down.”

“Oh, Anthony, that’s wonderful. Come here, sweetie.”

He pulls him into an embrace. Their relationship exists in an odd in-between space that’s not _quite_ dating yet slightly more intimate than Ezra would normally be with a friend—particularly a new friend. Anthony seems happy to follow his lead, though.

“Listen,” Anthony says. “About my past. I just want you to know it wasn’t … a sex cult or anything worthy of the nightly news, yeah? I was just in a band for a long time. A terrible band, full of raging alcoholics with massive egos. Lots of poor choices. But I’m not in contact with them anymore, and I’m moving on from all of it.”

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” Ezra says. “I think it’s very admirable of you to cut ties with those people and start over. I can only imagine how much courage that takes, particularly at our age. You are going to be an _exceptional_ chef.”

Anthony smiles at that in a humble way. “I’m glad you think so.”

They eat and then share an umbrella as they walk back to Ezra’s flat in the rain, the glow of the evening lights reflected in the damp street. Anthony is holding the umbrella and has his other arm slung around Ezra’s shoulders, and Ezra is struck by how comfortable it feels. As though they’ve done this a hundred times before. Although he’s only known Anthony a short while, it occurs to him that he would miss him terribly if he were to vanish from his life as swiftly as he appeared.

Back in his flat, he takes off his jacket and realizes that Anthony is half-wet from where the umbrella wasn’t covering him completely.

“Oh, you’re drenched,” he says, reaching out to touch his damp sleeve. “I’ll get you a change of clothes.”

“Much appreciated,” Anthony says softly, and by god he looks stunning standing there with his auburn hair wet and wind tossed.

Without really deciding to do so, Ezra kisses him again. It’s a much better kiss this time, and he’s not going to ruin it by getting emotional.

“I thought I’d try that again,” he says afterward.

“I’m glad,” Anthony says, and the look he gives him is so kind and so fond that Ezra _has_ to kiss him once more.

He fetches some of Jay’s old pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, which he suspects will fit Anthony pretty well. It feels a bit odd, to be handing off his clothes like this, but it’s not like anyone was using them.

“Queen, eh?” Anthony remarks about the shirt after he comes out of the loo.

The clothes fit him near perfectly.

“Oh, yes, Jay loved them. He was always playing their music.”

Anthony hums at that and takes a seat beside him on the sofa. “Right. Well, who _doesn’t_ love Queen, yeah?”

“To be honest, I’m not their biggest fan, myself, so do feel free to keep that shirt if you like.”

Anthony looks a bit amused for a moment. “Thank you, again, for the dry clothes. I do really appreciate it.”

“No trouble at all.”

They watch television for a while, and Ezra leans into him, Anthony’s arm slithering around his shoulders shortly thereafter. It’s so cozy and nice, to sit like this, that Ezra feels a little pang of dread when he thinks of going to bed alone.


	5. Something Like This

After watching TV late into the night, Crowley is struggling to keep his eyes open. He’s anticipating another couch snooze, because there’s no way he’s going home this tired. 

Only, after he’s reclined there on the sofa, Ezra has returned in his pyjamas to give him an odd look for a few moments. Crowley is too tired to ask questions, so he just waits. 

“Anthony, sweetie. Are you still awake?”

“Hmm? Yes?”

Ezra hesitates. 

“What is it?” Crowley asks, sitting up.

“Well. I just. I want to ask you something, but you must say no if it’s too forward.”

“Alright.”

“I wonder if you’d like to … share my bed tonight. I don’t mean _sleep_ together—well, apart from the most literal sense, that is. But _only_ sleeping. Is what I mean.”

“Oh,” Crowley says, suddenly wide awake. “If you’re certain you’re comfortable with that.”

“I’m not certain of much, but I think it would be nice. Far nicer than the couch, at least. But only if you like the idea.”

Crowley stands up. “I do. If you change your mind, though, say the word and I’ll come back here. It’s no matter.”

Situated under the blankets in Ezra’s bed moments later, Crowley is frozen, not wanting to be presumptuous about how close they’ll be sleeping. Back in the cottage, he would already have his head on Aziraphale’s chest, and there’s the slightest impulse to do that now. But he holds still. 

Ezra is the one who scoots over a bit, just enough to let their shoulders touch. On pure instinct, Crowley shifts to lie on his side and rubs Ezra’s arm. He knows how strange this must be for him, to think that he has someone other than his husband in his bed. But some part of Ezra’s mind _must_ recognize him, Crowley thinks, even if he hasn’t accessed the actual memories yet. 

Ezra reaches up and takes his hand, and then still holding it, shifts to lie on his side as well, facing away, placing his arm around him without speaking. Crowley follows his lead, as always, and holds him, stopping short of kissing his temple, since that’s probably too much. 

Despite how tired he was before, Crowley finds that he’s less interested in sleep now. For one thing, he wants to be sure Ezra is alright. For another, he really doesn’t want to miss this moment. 

After some time with only the sound of rain outside, he hears Ezra sniff softly and responds by holding him a bit tighter. Ezra’s hand finds Crowley’s and squeezes it in reply, and then he lets go so that he can rub his face on his sleeve. 

“Ezra?” Crowley starts. 

“I’m alright,” he says. “I mean, I’m not, really. But stay, alright? Stay with me.”

“Always,” Crowley answers, and he hopes it isn’t the wrong thing to say. 

***

Ezra awakens from one of his least favorite recurring dreams. In it, Jay is suddenly back home, as though nothing ever happened, and Ezra is asking him where he’s been all this time and why he never called and telling him there was a _funeral_ ,for God’s sake, but Jay doesn’t seem to understand what he’s on about. It always ends with Ezra pulling him into his arms and sobbing about how much he missed him, and then waking up in an empty bed. 

Only, this time, he wakes up to find Anthony asleep beside him, auburn hair falling over his face and Jay’s old t-shirt on his chest. Looking at him, Ezra is glad to have him there. To not be alone. But then, something occurs to him. The dream was slightly different this time, because when he hugged Jay, he was wearing that same shirt. And during the hug, just before the dream faded away, Ezra couldn’t remember if he was hugging Jay or Anthony. Like they were blurred into one person. 

Not exactly _subtle_ dream symbolism for the first time Anthony has slept in Jay’s old spot. 

“Ah, good morning, aye—zra,” Anthony slurs upon stirring, sticking up his hands and stretching like a cat. 

Ezra laughs. “Good morning to you, as well.”

He reaches over and moves some of the hair out of Anthony’s face, and as he does it, it feels oddly natural, once again, as though this isn’t brand new for them. Just for a second, Ezra feels as though he recognizes Anthony from somewhere else, from a time before they met, and then belatedly he realizes that he’s merely thinking of Jay. 

Perhaps he hasn’t shaken that dream yet. 

“How are you?” Anthony asks. 

“I’m well. Glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Anthony says. “Breakfast?”

***

In the weeks that follow, Ezra grows fond of having Anthony share his bed, which he does fairly regularly since he was already in the habit of staying the night. It’s nice to fall asleep next to someone again. 

It’s also strange that it’s someone other than his husband. 

He starts to feel odd about the fact that he’s never visited Anthony’s flat, but when Ezra mentions it, Anthony just shrugs and calls it “empty and boring.”

Sometimes, Ezra imagines what it might have been like if Jay and Anthony had met each other. They would have had a lot to talk about, certainly. Perhaps he would have become a dear friend to both of them. That’s a nice thought. 

Only, in that scenario, Anthony certainly wouldn’t have been sleeping in their bed. Perhaps it’s a bit soon for that. But perhaps that doesn’t matter when Ezra enjoys his company so much. Particularly in contrast to how empty the bed feels without him. 

_You’re overthinking this,_ Ezra imagines Jay saying, as though he’s standing there beside him in the bedroom loo again. 

“Like everything else,” he mumbles in reply, leaning over to apply his back salve.

_There’s no harm in getting to know someone new. You know there isn’t. You know I’d want what’s best for you._

“Bollocks,” Ezra says as he attempts and fails to reach the right spot due to a new flash of pain. “Not you, darling. I do know that, of course. I’ve no doubts.”

Just then, in the space where Ezra was picturing Jay by the open door, Anthony appears, back from the hall toilet.

“Did you say something?” he asks. 

“Oh … probably. Talking to myself, don’t mind me.”

“Do you need some help with that?” 

Ezra looks at the jar of salve and pauses. His first instinct is to say no, to shoo him away since he doesn’t have a shirt on. But it’s genuinely so much easier when someone helps. And Jay would want him to say yes. 

“Actually, that would be lovely,” he says. “It’s just a balm for my back and it’s a bit tricky to apply myself.”

“Certainly,” Anthony says, stepping into the loo. 

He takes the cream without hesitation and begins to gently rub it into Ezra’s skin. It’s such a kind act, and so reminiscent of his husband, that Ezra has to blink away a tingle of dampness in his eyes. 

“How’s that?” Anthony asks. 

“That’s really nice,” Ezra says, clearing his throat. “Thank you, sweetie.”

“More?”

“Just a bit, if you don’t mind.”

“‘Course not. You need this every night?”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea, though admittedly I’ve been putting it off.”

“Oh,” Anthony answers, sympathetic. “If you’d like, you could lie on the bed and I’ll massage you properly?”

“That sounds lovely,” Ezra says. “But perhaps another time. I think that’ll do nicely for now.”

When he turns to face Anthony, he finds him looking concerned.

“Thank you,” Ezra says. “That was very kind.”

An odd mixture of emotions flashes across Anthony’s face at that. He seems to be deciding what to say. 

“If there’s anything else I can do, just say the word.”

In reply, Ezra pulls him into an embrace instead of speaking, because his voice is gone for the moment. Anthony doesn’t seem to find it strange at all, holding him there a while. 

When he starts to pull away and finds their faces a breath apart, Ezra is powerless to resist kissing him. Anthony responds in kind, cradling his face, and that’s also something Jay would have done. For a moment, it’s a bit like one of Ezra’s dreams where Jay is back and perfectly healthy. He has to push the thought away, feeling it’s unfair to Anthony, and then he immediately feels guilty for pushing away a thought of his husband, and when has one bloody kiss ever been so complicated?

Some part of his conflicting emotions must be present on his face, because in the wake of the kiss, Anthony seems to read his mind. 

“You alright? I can take the sofa, if you need some space.”

“No,” Ezra says without hesitation, sniffing. “Under no circumstances are you sleeping on the sofa. Go on to bed; I’ll be there shortly.”

That gets him a little smile. “Alright.”

Ezra snuggles up to him before they fall asleep, and Anthony rubs his arm. In the dark, it really is difficult to distinguish him from Jay. They even smell alike, he thinks. Or possibly he just can’t remember what Jay smelled like, and his mind is conflating them. But how could he forget what his own husband smelled like? His husband who lied in bed next to him every night for twenty years? Is the mind really so fluid and fleeting, to lose so easily what matters most? Perhaps so. Like a box of irreplaceable photos, tucked into a high shelf and deemed unimportant. 

_I’m so afraid of forgetting you_ , he says in his mind to his imaginary Jay, feeling dampness spreading on his pillow. 

He dozes off before he can sort out a fitting response. 


	6. Falling

On his way to Ezra’s flat one evening, with sacks of groceries in hand for supper, Crowley is in high spirits. Summer has started to give way to autumn now, and there’s a pleasant chill in the night air that seems vaguely romantic. 

Crowley nearly laughs at himself for the thought. He does feel that becoming human has meant discarding a hardened part of himself, as though he’s been split open like an oyster. The cracks began forming during his two decades of happy marriage, and now the shell is fully gone and the soft bits inside are all that’s left. More vulnerable, perhaps, but never more free. 

Ezra answers the door with a warm smile, as usual, and helps Crowley unload the bags in the kitchen. A few months have passed since he started cooking for Ezra, and his flat has come to feel like home. Much more than Crowley’s own barren flat, in fact, which still feels more like a stranger’s place. 

“What a lovely night it is,” Crowley remarks as he pulls on his apron. 

“A bit chilly, no?” Ezra asks over his shoulder, busy preparing two glasses of wine for them to enjoy whilst Crowley cooks. 

“A bit, but in a refreshing way.”

“Well, cheers to that,” Ezra replies, handing Crowley his drink. 

“Cheers,” he responds, taking a sip and finding the wine incredibly smooth. “Thanks, angel.”

He realizes only a moment later what’s come out of his mouth. Perhaps he was overly relaxed or distracted. At first, he hopes that it will go unnoticed, or maybe that enough time has passed for it to not be a strange term of endearment at all. But then he spares a glance at Ezra and sees his face. 

“What did you call me?” he asks, bewildered. 

“I…” Crowley starts and stops, having no notion of how to respond. 

“That’s what Jay used to call me,” Ezra goes on. “Only, I don’t remember ever telling you about that.”

“You … you did mention it once,” Crowley says, scrambling to fix this, though Ezra most certainly left that out. “I remember thinking it fit you so well. But I didn’t mean to say it, truly, it just slipped out. I’m sorry. I had no right.”

Ezra shakes his head, looking away. Crowley knows that look; he knows he’s holding in an explosion of some sort. 

“Look,” he tries, swallowing. “We’ll have a nice supper and forget I said that, yeah? Won’t happen again.”

“Forget?” Ezra says, tears pooling in his eyes

Crowley can see that he’s royally fucked this up. His slip of the tongue has clearly come on the worst possible evening; Ezra must have had a bad grief day that Crowley was unaware of. 

“Like it’s so simple?” Ezra goes on. “We were married for _twenty_ years. And they were the happiest years of my life.”

Crowley nods. _Yes, they were._

“And it all ended on one awful morning when someone driving a truck decided to round a corner too quickly. I’m never going to make peace with that. I know I’m supposed to move on, but I can’t. I know a single word shouldn’t mean so much, but it does. I can’t forget.”

“I’m not asking you to forget anything about him,” Crowley tries. “But with all I’ve heard of him, I know he wouldn’t want you to mourn forever.”

“No! He’d want to fucking be here!”

“Yes,” Crowley agrees. “He certainly would.”

“I’m sorry, Anthony, but I actually think you should go for the night.”

That’s an unexpected stab to Crowley’s heart. 

“Ezra,” he pleads. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” he scolds, tears falling. “As you said yourself, you had _no_ right.”

Crowley moves around the counter, hoping to pull him into an apologetic embrace. 

“Don’t,” Ezra says, backing away from him. “I’m not changing my mind. I need some space.”

Crowley stands there, defeated, wanting to do and say so many impossible things. Instead, he nods and removes his apron, hanging it on the rack and placing the groceries in the fridge. 

As he pulls on his jacket, he turns to face Ezra again. 

“I am deeply sorry for your loss. You should have had a lot more time together. I’m … I’m sure he fought until the last second to stay here with you.”

With that, he turns and leaves. By the time he’s reached the street, his eyes and nose are steadily leaking. He hates that Aziraphale can’t remember. He hates that he said something so careless. And more than anything, he hates that this argument means Ezra will probably go to bed hungry. 

During his research into grief, Crowley read about anger outbursts, but experiencing one in person stings a lot more than he expected. Still, he knows Aziraphale too well to think that he’ll stay cross for long. With some time to cool down, hopefully he’ll be ready to forgive by morning, and then Crowley can make amends. Hopefully. 

***

Ezra rubs his hands over his face after the door softly shuts behind Anthony’s sad exit. He immediately feels awful enough to imagine chasing after him, but he stays where he is, silently sobbing in the kitchen next to the empty grocery sacks.

He can imagine how Jay would look at him, hearing that he threw a friend out of the house over such a slight offense. He can also imagine how Jay would react to finding him so upset, and is abruptly caught up in imagining his arms encircling him, kind hands rubbing his back, helping him calm down.

Just like that, the mental image shifts, and he’s picturing Anthony holding him instead of Jay. The thought is so appealing and nice that he sobs anew for denying him earlier. That’s what really bothers him, isn’t it? It wasn’t the old nickname. It’s the fact that the two of them keep blurring together in his mind. He had yet another dream the previous night that he was with Anthony at the Ritz and they were celebrating a wedding anniversary. Waking from it left him feeling out of sorts all day, and then he still wasn’t in the right mood come supper time, though he’d tried to hide it and failed miserably. 

He fixes a bowl of porridge for supper and finds that he has little appetite for it, eating only a few bites, wiping his eyes all the while. 

Before retiring to his bedroom, he notices that the back porch lights are on and steps over to shut them off. The sight of all of Jay’s plants, healthy and green and thriving, evokes a wave of guilt. 

“What have I done?” he wonders out loud. 

It’s so not like him to snap like that. And poor Anthony looked so heartbroken as he left. Ezra knows he has to make this right, and as he climbs into bed, he’s already planning an apology letter that he’ll write in the morning when his mind is clear. 

***

Ezra wakes the next day famished after such a small supper, but the letter is his first priority, so he pulls on his robe and goes quickly down the hall to his study, settling into his desk without so much as fixing a cup of tea. His eyes are already blurry after _Dear Anthony_ , so this might take a while. 

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. He’s up at once to answer it, his pulse quickening, telling himself that surely it’s only an early post delivery. 

Opening the door, he finds Anthony there, holding a white paper sack and looking deeply apologetic.

“Please tell me to piss off if this is too soon,” Anthony says. “But at least take breakfast.”

He holds out the sack. Rather than taking it, Ezra rushes forward to throw his arms around him. He hugs him tightly, and Anthony returns the embrace as he always does, rubbing his back.

“I’m so sorry,” he says into Anthony’s shoulder. 

“Me, too,” comes the reply.

Ezra shakes his head, looking at him. “You’ve been nothing but wonderfully kind to me, and I was terribly cruel to you in return.”

“No, you weren’t. You’re just grieving.”

“Thank you for understanding that,” Ezra says, reaching out to wipe a tear from Anthony’s sweet face. “Please come in.”

The sack is full of steaming sausage rolls, and they eat together in the sunny kitchen, Ezra happily devouring three. He can’t help but smile afterward, at his dear friend who knows him so well. He decides to forgo the letter and speak his mind. 

“I think I was cross with myself, not you,” he says. 

“You don’t have to explain,” Anthony replies, kind as ever.

“I want to,” Ezra says, reaching over to take his hand. “You’ve brought me a happiness that I never expected to have again. And, sometimes, it still feels so strange to think … that I get to be happy without him. But I know he’d be grateful to you, too, just as I am.”

Anthony takes his hand in both of his own, giving him a sweet smile, eyes glistening. Ezra stands and moves close enough to peck his cheek. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” he says. 

***

Crowley hadn’t been sure what to expect when he turned up with breakfast the very next morning, but he had a hunch that Ezra would be happy to see him. 

That turns out to be an understatement. 

Not long after they’ve finished breakfast and then moved to the sofa to have some tea with fresh mint leaves, Ezra pulls him into his arms and kisses him with fervor. Crowley is surprised, but more than happy to match his pace.

“I’m so glad you came back,” Ezra whispers.

“Of course,” Crowley says, mildly incredulous. 

“I missed you,” Ezra adds, punctuating that statement with another kiss. “I threw you out and then spent the whole night missing you, if that helps.”

This is the most ardent Ezra has been so far, though still practically chaste compared to Aziraphale—he would be above Crowley by now, certainly, and rocking their hips together, and oh it’s a mistake to think of _that_ right this second.

Unsure what else to do, Crowley awkwardly pulls one of Ezra’s decorative pillows into his lap as they continue snogging on the sofa.

“Oh,” Ezra says when his eyes are open. 

Perhaps it would have been less awkward to just forgo the pillow. 

“Don’t mind me,” Crowley says, quickly regretting those words, as well. 

“Oh,” Ezra repeats, sighing. “You’ve been … very patient with me, haven’t you?”

Before Crowley can respond, Ezra is kissing him again, and then he takes the pillow and sets it aside. Just that simple act has Crowley’s heart hammering his chest.

“May I?” Ezra asks, hand resting on Crowley’s thigh. 

Crowley can only nod, and then he feels Ezra stroking him through his trousers. An involuntary whine escapes him at the touch, and he holds onto him for dear life. After just a few moments, Ezra’s hand unfastens Crowley’s trousers and finds its way inside, and the first touch has him throwing his head back and gasping for air.

Working him at a steady pace, Ezra leans in to kiss his neck at the same time, and Crowley hears himself whine again. 

“Ah, fuck,” Crowley mutters, eyes screwed shut. 

He’s going to make a mess soon, he’s thinking, but then Ezra seems to read his mind. He withdraws his hand and resumes rubbing outside of his boxers, quickening his pace, and Crowley is coming soon after, leaving him light-headed and panting.

“Beautiful,” Ezra says, pressing a kiss to his cheek. 

Crowley opens his eyes to look at him and finds Ezra rosy-cheeked and happy. He pulls him into a lazy kiss, still catching his breath.

“Would you like me to return the favor?” he asks. 

“Not this time,” Ezra says. “But I did really enjoy that.”

Crowley kisses him again. “Me too. Me too.”

***

Afterward, as Crowley changes into some of Jay’s old underpants in the loo, he has mixed emotions about what just happened. It’s decidedly wonderful to be intimate again, but it also makes him miss his husband more than ever. He takes a breath and pushes those thoughts away, though, bearing in mind that Ezra is likely having extremely mixed emotions, as well.

“Were those alright?” Ezra asks as Crowley steps back into the living room. 

“Perfect, thanks.”

Ezra pulls him into his arms again and kisses him anew. Relieved, Crowley decides he can enjoy this for now, for what it is, and be glad that Ezra has become so fond of him—and so trusting. 

They pass a lazy day together, and then when the sun starts to set, Crowley has a second go at preparing supper with yesterday’s groceries. He makes a fish stew that turns out better than he expected.

“Oh my,” Ezra remarks during supper. “That’s the most delectable fish stew I’ve ever tasted, Anthony.”

“That’s a wonderful compliment,” Crowley replies. “I’m glad you like it.”

Ezra has that look about him again, as though he’s hesitating to speak his mind. Crowley gives him a curious look in reply as silent encouragement. 

“I want to ask you something, but you _must_ say no if you’re the least bit uncomfortable,” Ezra says, sighing and setting down his fork.

“Alright,” Crowley agrees, slightly amused.

“I wonder if. Well, I wonder if you’d like to move in with me.”

Crowley can only blink, caught wholly off-guard. 

“I mean it. I love having you here, and not only because you’re an amazing cook. But no pressure. I know you’ve only just settled into your own flat.”

_Settled_ is a strong word; Crowley’s flat is still mostly empty, lacking even a table or a television, and Ezra knows that since they stopped there exactly once after an evening trip to the cinema. Crowley suspects that’s part of the reason he’s offering, but he wants to be sure the timing is right.

“I love being here, too,” Crowley says. “But … are you certain? It’s not too fast?”

“I am,” he says with conviction. “Only … I should add: If you think you’ll have to leave, then please don’t move in. I’m asking you to live here. If that’s too much, I completely understand. Nothing will change between us if you decline.”

Crowley feels a weight on his chest. He understands that Ezra is handing him his heart and asking him not to break it. He’s on his feet at once and rounding the table so that he can pull Ezra into an embrace where he sits. 

“I would love to live here with you,” Crowley says. 

“Good,” Ezra says against him. “I’m just sorry I had to throw you out to realize what I wanted.”

“Worth it,” Crowley says, and that gets him a laugh and a kiss. 


	7. Beloved Husband

Moving in doesn’t take long at all, since Crowley has few personal belongings and doesn’t need to bring any furniture. Aside from a half-full suitcase, there’s just the painting he received from Ezra, which has been his single piece of decor. It ends up propped against the stack of Jay’s other works in Ezra’s study.

Ezra reacts with awe when he sees the Bentley for the first time, and Crowley is prepared: He explains that he inherited the car and a “decent sum” of money from a distant uncle who passed away some time before he came to London. That seems to land alright. 

On his third night in his official new home, Crowley stands marveling at the patio greenhouse. The plants look better, even, than the ones he was tending back at the cottage, and he’s glad to have been able to revive them for Ezra. 

When he steps back inside, though, the flat seems too quiet. Crowley peeks into the living room and finds it empty, so he checks the bedroom, and then the study, where Ezra is seated on the settee, turning over something in his hands. Stepping closer, Crowley sees that it’s his wedding ring. 

“Hi there,” Crowley says, taking a cautious seat beside him. “You alright?” “Oh,” Ezra says in surprise, apparently just noticing him. “I was just thinking … perhaps I ought to stop wearing this.”

“What? Why?” Crowley asks, confused. “Not on my account, surely.”

“Maybe mine, then. I’m not really married anymore, am I?”

Crowley touches his shoulder. “Where’s this coming from, hmm?”

Ezra sighs. “Well, today was our wedding anniversary. Or, it would have been.”

“Ezra,” Crowely says, taken aback. “You could have told me.”

It’s the wrong month for their _actual_ wedding anniversary, or Crowley might have suspected.

“I know,” he says, nodding. “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. I just feel like I’m always going on about him, anyway. And I wanted to focus on being glad that you moved in.”

He reaches over and pats Crowley’s knee. 

“If there’s anything you’d like to do,” Crowley says, “anything we could do together, just say the word. We could look through more old photos, perhaps, or take flowers to the cemetery?”

Ezra looks at him with rosy eyes. It takes him a moment to speak. 

“Would you really want to go to his grave with me?”

“Of course I would.”

“I’ve only been once,” Ezra says, voice wavering. “I couldn’t bring myself to go back again, though I always felt like I should.”

“Well, if you want to go, I’ll certainly come with you. If it wouldn’t be strange to have me there.”

“Not at all,” Ezra says, leaning into him. “That’s very kind. If we could take flowers tomorrow, I think … I think that would be really lovely.”

Crowley wraps his arms around him and kisses his hair. 

***

The following chilly morning, they bundle in jackets and scarves and then stop at the market for flowers. After selecting a nice bouquet of yellow roses, Ezra seems nervous for the drive, remarking multiple times on what a pleasant, sunny day it is and avoiding any mention of where they’re headed. 

As they start into the cemetery, walking hand in hand through crunchy leaves, Crowley feels Ezra’s grip tighten around his palm and tightens his own in reply. Crowley hopes this is a good thing for them to be doing. It feels like a good thing.

They reach the grave, which reads _Jay Fell_ above the simple descriptor _Beloved Husband_. Ezra takes a breath. 

“Hi, Jay,” he says, setting the flowers at the base of the headstone and then wiping away dirt from the top of it. “I missed our anniversary yesterday, but I brought flowers today... It’s a really nice day. You’d like it.”

He straightens up sighs. “I never know what to say. Nothing sounds quite right.”

Crowley glances over at him and back to the headstone. It occurs to him that he needs to say something, to help Ezra. 

“Hello, Jay,” Crowley starts, hoping he doesn’t fuck this up. “I’m Anthony. We haven’t met, but I’ve heard quite a lot about you… I feel rather like I know you, in fact. And well, listen. I want you to know that you needn’t worry about your Ezra here, alright? He’s had a rough go of it, but he’s stronger than he knows. And I’m going to make sure he has all the crepes he can possibly eat and all the back rubs he needs.”

Crowley is inwardly cringing at everything that just came out of his mouth and fully prepared to agree that speaking to a grave is impossible, but then Ezra hugs him, and it’s the tightest embrace Crowley has ever felt. He responds in kind, wrapping his arms around his sweetheart and holding him there a while. 

As they leave, Ezra links their arms together and rubs Crowley’s elbow, and Crowley feels pretty confident that the visit was a good thing. 

“Why don’t we stop for lunch before we head back, hmm?” Ezra says, pausing before the car. “We should make the most of this mild weather. This nice day.”

“Sure,” Crowley says, facing him. “Lunch sounds good... You’re alright?”

Ezra smiles warmly, nodding. Crowley knows that smile. 

“Last time I came here,” Ezra says, eyes glistening. “Leaving alone was the worst part. So, yes, this is much better.”

Crowley pulls him into his arms again. “I’m glad I could be here with you.”

“Thank you,” Ezra says. “I can’t begin to tell you how much this meant to me.”

***

All through lunch, Ezra seems to be in high spirits, speaking of happy memories and reacting with excitement to the dessert selection on the menu. Crowley notices, too, that when it’s his turn to talk (and he does a lot more listening), Ezra places his hand on Crowley’s forearm and listens with a fond smile. 

After some window shopping, they pass through the park, walking again with their arms linked and Ezra leaning into him. It strikes Crowley that this is the most they’ve ever behaved like a couple while they’ve been human, and he’s grateful to have arrived here.

When they’re back in his flat, Ezra is on him before Crowley can undo his jacket. Ezra pulls him close and kisses him with fervor, sighing with pleasure, as though he’s been waiting all day to do it. Like he wants much more. 

Crowley is happy to follow his lead, as always. 

They make love for the first time that night, by Crowley’s definition. They’ve been intimate previously, yes, but this time they have sex in the way they used to. It takes much longer to get Crowley’s human body ready to receive, but he finds that he doesn’t mind the wait at all, because it’s so wonderful to watch Ezra enjoy touching him, biting his lip as he curls two fingers inside. 

When they’re connected and Ezra is above him, steadily thrusting, Crowley can no longer deny how much he’s missed this, and he lets himself forget just for a moment that this isn’t his husband as he knows him. Ezra’s breath hitches a couple times, though, and Crowley realizes after a moment that it sounds like discomfort. 

“You alright?” he asks, touching his cheek.

“Yes,” Ezra mutters, unconvincingly. 

Crowley connects the dots. “Is it your back?”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Ezra,” Crowley starts.

“I don’t want to stop.”

“Nor do I. But you could sit up and I’ll get on top of you?”

“Oh,” Ezra responds, considering that. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not at all,” Crowley says. “Come on.”

Ezra gets situated against the pillows and Crowley straddles his lap, easing himself onto him. They moan in unison when he’s back in place. 

“How’s that?” Crowley asks as he starts to move. 

“Better,” Ezra breathes, taking hold of Crowley’s waist. “Oh, that’s … so wonderful. Thank you.” 

They reach their peaks not long after, and Crowley takes Ezra’s face in his hands and kisses him. He wants to curl up against him and just lie there for a while and have Ezra stroke his hair, as they used to, but that’s not how it goes, of course. Instead, they take turns in the loo, and then Crowley massages Ezra’s back for a while with the soothing balm. 

When his pain has subsided, Ezra rolls to his side to face Crowley and reaches out to tuck his hair behind his ear, just as Aziraphale used to.

“Where did you come from?” Ezra wonders. 

“Sussex.”

That gets him a breathy laugh, which fades into something more sentimental. In the glow of lamplight, Ezra’s features are half-shadow, but Crowley can see a little shimmer in his eye. 

“I love you,” Ezra says suddenly.

Crowley is frozen for a moment. In some ways, that’s what he’s wanted to hear. He just never expected it in this context, from a version of Aziraphale who doesn’t remember their truth.

“I mean that,” Ezra adds. “I never expected to feel this again, but well. Here you are.”

Crowley leans in to kiss him. 

“I love you, too,” he says, running a hand over his pale curls. “I love you so much.”


	8. Mortality

Crowley had always thought he could imagine what it was like to fear for one’s life. He had seen the way humans panicked and begged when theirs were at risk, the ways they fought to survive. They only had one short life to live, so it made sense that they wouldn’t want it cut short.

He’d certainly feared the prospect of execution a few times, not to mention the fear of the world ending. As a human being, though, mortal fear felt different. It overwhelmed his mind so that all he could think was _no no no no_ and flooded his body with reflexive impulses he didn’t fully understand, leaving him trembling and stammering as he tries to speak.

All this because a group of teens holding shiny knives have decided to surround him in an alley late one night, demanding his wallet. Ezra needed more salve for his back, and Crowley had been happy to make a late trip to the pharmacy. But the universe has other plans, apparently. 

“Take it,” Crowley sputters, tossing his wallet on the ground before them. 

In his previous life, Crowley would have scoffed at these pathetic children and continued on his way, snapping his fingers to turn those knives into dildos or something equally amusing. But now his hands are shaking and he feels like he’s going to piss himself, because there are four of them and one of him, and if they get angry enough, they could _kill_ him with those knives, they really could, and they’d leave his body here in the alley and no one would find it until morning and Ezra would wonder all night what happened and that _can’t_ be how this ends. 

The ring leader steps closer, reaching down to take the wallet, and Crowley catches a glimpse of his piercing blue eyes and bad acne. He spits at Crowley’s feet before leading his minions away. 

When they’ve gone, Crowley hurries back a different way, his heart hammering his chest all the while. He hates that he wasn’t able to get the salve, and he knows he needs to cancel his credit card, but all he can think about is being back in the flat. 

At the door, he pauses to lean against the wall for a moment, catching his breath. He rubs his hands over his face, not wanting to alarm Ezra but knowing he has to tell him what happened. Gathering his wits, he unlocks the door and steps inside.

“Anthony?” Ezra says upon seeing him, instantly alarmed.

Crowley doesn’t know what to do or say, so he just falls into him, pulling him into a hug and burying his face in Ezra’s shoulder. He needs his husband. 

“Good lord, what happened?” he asks, holding him. 

Crowley can’t answer just yet, and Ezra seems to understand, standing there in silence a while.

“Didn’t make it to the pharmacy,” he mumbles. “Some … bloody _kids_ just mugged me in the alley.”

“What?! Are you serious?”

Crowley nods, feeling rather pathetic about the whole thing in hindsight. Ezra guides him to the sofa, where they sit, and Ezra rubs his back to comfort him in the same way Aziraphale would have. That’s what does it, that simple touch. Crowley’s vision swims with tears, and he’s awkwardly wiping them away from his cheeks in vain. 

“Oh, Anthony,” Ezra says. “Come here, sweetie.”

He takes him into his arms again and holds him. 

“You’re safe. You’re alright. It’s okay.”

“The worst part,” Crowley whines, having not planned on admitting this out loud, “was that I really thought they might kill me, and then … you’d be all alone again. Better off never having met me. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“Anthony, look at me,” Ezra says. 

Crowley shifts to meet his gaze. 

“Do you know what I learned the day I lost Jay?” he asks, running his fingers through Crowley’s hair.

Crowley shakes his head. 

“He was ready to leave, all dressed in his cycling clothes, and I grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back at the last minute, just so I could kiss him goodbye before he rushed off. I have thought about that kiss, that moment, a hundred times per day since then. I’m so glad I did it. I had no notion that was the last time I would see him, of course. But I made sure we made the most of that passing moment all the same. That’s what I learned. We can’t take a single moment for granted, and I’m grateful for every moment with you, too, my dear. I hope we’re going to grow old together, but no matter what happens, I would certainly never regret _knowing_ you.”

As they lie in bed that night, Crowley has a lot on his mind. He’s less upset about the mugging itself; he’s hardly shocked by it and logically knows it wasn’t personal. But it stirred something in him: the fear of dying early, before this body reaches its natural expiration date. The demons could have killed him, too, back at the cottage. But they didn’t. He can’t waste this time with Ezra. 

And they have such little time together left as it is. He won’t let it end any sooner than it must. He has no control over hooligans with knives or drivers rounding corners too quickly, but he can keep this body in tip-top condition for as long as possible, with healthy foods and exercise and even bloody vitamins, if that’s what it takes. And he can encourage Ezra to do the same. 

***

The following day, while Crowley is making a salad for lunch, Ezra is sorting through his recent mail, and cups his mouth in surprise when he opens one of the envelopes. 

“Oh my goodness,” he says, his voice breaking. 

Crowley has a hunch he knows what this is about, but he feigns polite confusion. 

“Good or bad?”

“Good,” Ezra says, wiping his eyes now. “Really good. Apparently someone made a very generous donation to the clinic in Jay’s name.”

“Oh, that’s really nice,” Crowley says, keeping it casual. “Any notion as to who?”

After Crowley made a small, practical donation the day of his appointment, he searched online for a way to donate anonymously. Through that portal, he was able to submit several donations in varying sizes across a few weeks—he didn’t want to make one big one and make the news—including one that he submitted in memoriam of Jay Fell. 

“I could scarcely guess,” Ezra says. “His work touched so many people, though, of course. It could be just about anyone. What a lovely thing.”

Crowley smiles. “Lunch is ready.”

They eat their salad, which Crowley is proud of even if it’s not as tasty as his usual offerings, and then he spends the afternoon getting the kitchen clean and tending the plants while Ezra reads in his study down the hall. He offers to help, of course, but Crowley is more than happy to shoo him away and do the chores on his own. 

After some time, he pops into the study to deliver some afternoon tea, setting it on Ezra’s desk beside where he’s making notes in a journal. The familiarity of the sight and the gesture tugs at Crowley’s heart a bit. 

“Oh, thank you, Jay, dear,” comes the quick reply.

Crowley smiles, wondering if Ezra even noticed what he said. “You’re very welcome.”

“Oh my,” Ezra says after taking a sip, clearly mortified. “Anthony … I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no matter.”

Ezra sighs and stands up to face him properly, his face a picture of regret. 

“It is,” he says, reaching out and taking Crowley’s hand. “I hope you know… that I love you for who you are. Not only because you’ve filled a void in my life.”

Crowley pulls him into an embrace. 

“I do,” he says. _I know better than you could possibly imagine._

***

They take a walk that evening, arms linked as they pass through Covent Garden just as the lamps are starting to come on. As they stop for hot cocoa in the square and sit to eat while a string quartet plays nearby, Crowley is reminded of days past. 

“Have you ever been to Paris?” he asks.

“Paris? Oh, once. But a very long time ago.”

“Hmm,” Crowley says. “Then we’ll need to fix that, won’t we?”

Ezra gives him a look. “There’s a romantic thought.”

Crowley shrugs. “I rather like it.”

Ezra smiles as he finishes his cocoa, looking happy as ever, and Crowley’s heart swells with the same happiness. Sitting here at twilight with the cheerful gabble and the music and the lights, being together feels nearly as wonderful as it used to. It feels like being husbands again. Crowley could be content like this, he thinks. This could be enough. If this is all they have left, he’ll make the most of every moment. 

Speaking of seizing moments, Crowley takes notice of a few couples who have started dancing in the square and abruptly stands, holding out his hand. Ezra gives him an amused look. 

“May I have this dance?” Crowley asks. 

A bit flushed in the cheeks, Ezra nods and stands to join him, and they dance together. Yes, Crowley thinks, this could be enough. This could be how they live their final years. Together.

***

When they’re back home, Ezra can’t get Anthony into bed quickly enough. The dance in the square was perfectly romantic, and he hasn’t felt so happy or so adored in such a long time. As they make love, Anthony seems pleasantly surprised by Ezra’s enthusiasm, and they laugh together a few times. 

Afterward, they get ready for bed, and Ezra watches Anthony comb the tangles out of his lovely hair, basking in having someone to do the mundane alongside him. Someone to share all the in-between moments. He knows Jay would be happy for him, too. He knows he’d take comfort in the knowledge that Ezra has found someone else he can bond with on this level, someone so keen on looking after him. 

“Goodnight, sweetie,” he says when they’re cozy. 

“G’night,” Anthony replies, already a little groggy, it sounds like. “Ezeer-a Fell.”

Ezra laughs. “What was that?”

Anthony is quiet. Already asleep. He does drift off rather quickly at times. Ezra laughs again and reaches over to pat his arm in the dark.

“Goodnight, Anthony Crowley.”

That night, Ezra has a new and wonderful dream. In it, he lives in a charming little house near a beach. Anthony is there, too, and they’re blissfully happy. Upon waking, that’s what he remembers most: how happy they were. _Maybe someday_ , he muses, _we’ll move to the coast._


	9. Wings

A month has passed since Ezra first dreamed of the cottage by the beach, and every time the dream returns, it feels a bit more real. 

On this particular morning, he recalls the most vivid dream so far. It started out the same: He lived there happily with Anthony, only this time, he kept calling him by his last name. Anthony was calling him something else, too. Something with too many syllables. Something Ezra feels like he should recognize.

Ezra can’t shake the notion that the dreams are a message of some kind. Some part of his mind pushing him to make a connection that he can’t quite work out. He feels compelled to visit a certain location—it’s as though he can _remember_ being at the cottage, can visualize precisely where it sits in the South Downs. But how could that be?

He won’t tell Anthony any of this, for how mad it sounds, even though he knows Anthony would probably be willing to make a weird trip south with him just to put his mind at ease. 

But no, he doesn’t want to trouble him with this, he thinks as he finds Anthony stacking cups neatly in the cupboard, wearing Jay’s old checkered shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and his long auburn hair drawn up into a bun. They’ve been getting on so well; he needn’t worry him. 

But he does need to sort this out. 

“I think I’m going to run some errands,” he says, overly casual. “Over to the market and a few other stops, as well. I may be out a while, so don’t worry.”

Anthony turns and smiles. “Alright. I take it you don't want company?”

It takes Ezra a moment to respond. Something about Anthony—how healthy he’s looking these days, or the kitchen lighting, perhaps—feels familiar again. Ezra previously thought it was because of how Anthony sometimes reminds him of Jay, but now he isn’t sure anymore. It feels like something else. 

“Actually, no,” Ezra says, already feeling a bit guilty. “I think I’ll venture out solo this time. Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Anthony says, coming forward and pulling him into a kiss. “You ought to take an umbrella, though. The sky looks dark to the south.”

“Ah, yes. Good thinking.”

They kiss goodbye. 

“See you later, then?” Anthony asks. 

“Yes. Later. Love you, sweetie.”

“Love you, too.”

***

Ezra takes a train to Sussex, and then hails a taxi in the rain to get to the coast, using a paper map to navigate to the area where he _thinks_ he dreamed a cottage. He’s fully prepared for there to be nothing there, to have to ask the driver to turn around, but his heart skips a beat to see the exact house from his dream. It’s real.

Leaving the car, he makes his way up to the charming little building with his umbrella open, thunder rumbling overhead. He’s been here before, he can tell, but when? Why can’t he place it? He tries the knob and finds the door unlocked, surprisingly, so he opens it very slowly, peeking inside. 

“Hello?” he calls out, wondering if he’s trespassing. But his instincts tell him the house must be empty. 

Stepping inside, he takes a look around. The living room is attractively furnished but littered clutter—wine bottles, clothes, various rubbish. For a moment, he wonders if someone was squatting here, but if that were the case, they must have moved on some time ago, as everything is covered in the same undisturbed coating of dust. 

At the opposite side of the room, a panoramic window offers a perfect view of the stormy beach outside. Standing there and looking at it, Ezra recalls doing so sometime before, and he remembers Anthony—Crowley?—there with him. 

“When could we have come here?” he wonders aloud, struggling to make sense of all this. 

Moving into another room, he finds a cozy little study, not unlike his own, lined with bookshelves and a beautiful antique secretary desk. Just above the desk, on the wall, there’s a collection of photos that stops him in his tracks: They’re all of him and Anthony, but they both look slightly different. Anthony has yellow eyes with slit pupils, for one thing, and both of them are dressed a bit oddly. 

He takes one of the pictures from its place on the wall and holds it in his hands. It’s the two of them, sitting side by side in the sun, and Ezra is embracing Anthony from behind. With short hair, Anthony looks strikingly like Jay, as though they could be twin brothers, and Ezra can’t believe he never noticed that before. Both of their hands are visible in the photo, and they’re wearing matching gold rings. At the sight of those rings, he immediately knows that they are engraved on the inside. And those engravings say _Crowley_ on his own ring and _Aziraphale_ on the other. 

“Aziraphale,” he says. His true name. 

Hearing it makes it a wonder that he’s ever forgotten it at all. With abrupt and stunning clarity, he recalls their wedding, standing in the park and exchanging the rings. He remembers that it wasn’t autumn, but spring, and it wasn’t Jay he married that day, but _Crowley_.

Just like that, a door opens in his mind and more memories come flooding in. Memories spanning several lifetimes. He gathers more photos into his hands and drops to sit in the desk chair, looking at them one by one and letting each memory unfurl in his mind. He can see, now, what he was blind to before, what had been reframed in his mind as the memories of a human life that never really happened. And a husband named Jay who never truly existed. 

The thought is painful, yet it brings swift relief. No wonder so many of his memories were hazy. No wonder two “separate” people seemed to be blurring in his mind. No wonder he kept dreaming of this house. 

He recalls as well, now, the last time he was here, roughly one year ago. Crowley had gone outside for some parsley, and just after he’d closed the door, something had seized Aziraphale. He’d been transported to Heaven in the blink of an eye. And Gabriel was there, glaring at him. After that, his memories were hazy until he woke up in Ezra’s flat, fully convinced it was his home, trying to recall what day it was and how long he’d slept.

One other thing is immediately obvious: Crowley’s memories are fully intact and have been the whole time. 

“Oh, my poor darling,” he sobs into his hands. 

And then he can’t stop sobbing, because everything falls into place. The way “Anthony” found him so suddenly and essentially inserted himself into Ezra’s life. The way he was so patient with everything and particularly with listening to stories about “Jay,” which he must have recognized as restructured memories of their actual married years. 

The state of this house, too, and the months Crowley must have spent cooped up in solitude, thinking he’d lost Aziraphale. Having to face being human alone, just as Aziraphale sat in Soho grieving a fictional version of his husband. 

It’s as though a wool blanket has been lifted from his mind, and he can recall his life clearly for the first time since his memories were stolen. An entire year that Crowley has waited for him.

Just as he’s thinking of him, his mobile phone starts ringing. He’s been away over two hours now, so of course it’s “Anthony” calling. He knows he has to answer, but he can’t have the real conversation yet. Not over the phone. He has to get back there and tell him in person. 

“Hello?” he answers, leaving the study and passing back into the living room.

“There you are,” comes Crowley’s voice, slightly tinged with concern. 

“Here I am,” Aziraphale says, swallowing. “Sorry, dear, I seem to have lost track of time, that’s all.”

“Ah. Well it looks like that storm is moving in soon. Do you need me to come get you?”

“No, no,” he answers, trying to keep a tremble out of his voice. “I’m fine. I’ll be … I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Ezra, are you alright?”

“I’m perfectly well, I assure you. Never better, in fact.”

“Are you certain I can’t come get you? Where are you?”

Aziraphale can’t help but chuckle, because the answer to _that_ is a doozy. 

“Anthony, I have a _surprise_ for you, alright? Don’t make me spoil it, now.”

“Oh,” comes the reply, along with a little laugh. “Well, in that case. Back soon, then?”

“Yes, certainly, sweetie.”

“Alright. Do mind how you go. Love you.”

Aziraphale can’t see the room anymore for the fresh tears blurring his vision. “I love you, too.”

After hanging up, he crumples to the floor and sobs. He sobs to think of how Crowley has waited for him, how hard he’s worked to take care of him. 

Aziraphale has to find a way to get back to London as swiftly as possible, but the trip will take an hour and a half at the very least, probably longer in the rain, and it feels unfathomable to wait that long. He abruptly feels like he’s going to explode if he has to wait another minute. Hunching over in this way evokes a familiar flash of pain in his back, and he grumbles in irritation. But then, he realizes something is different. It’s not exactly _pain_. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but there’s something more. It’s as though the ache is more of a superficial distraction, there to obscure a deeper truth. Not unlike a false memory.

Just then, there comes a change in the air around him. Some subtle shift. When he opens his eyes, he finds that radiant sunlight is spilling in through the window instead of the rain that was pouring just seconds ago . The whole room seems to be glowing with golden light. And his back doesn’t hurt anymore. 

That’s when Aziraphale realizes he doesn’t need a ride back to London after all. 

***

Back in the flat, Aziraphale looks around and sees his life there in a whole new light. He remembers, now with clarity, how hopeful Crowley looked the first few times he came there—so elated to find him that he grabbed hold of this new life together and refused to let go.

Aziraphale is weeping anew when he glances over at the kitchen and recalls how much time Crowley has spent there cooking wonderful meals and cleaning afterward, and the way he'd always turn and smile as soon as Ezra walked into the kitchen. 

Through the glass doors of the patio, Aziraphale can see Crowley in the greenhouse, tending the plants. He smiles, and the smile becomes a laugh. Regaining his composure, he steps toward the door. 

***

Crowley is on a step-stool, watering a hanging plant, when something moves out of the corner of his eye and he turns to see Ezra suddenly standing there beside him. 

“Ohshit!” he says, nearly tumbling from the stool but catching himself. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

He climbs down and realizes that Ezra is crying—and giving him an alarmingly odd look. Like perhaps he’s on some kind of drug that’s causing him to think Crowley has four heads. 

“Sweetheart, what is it?” he asks, taking Ezra by the shoulders to help anchor him. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Ezra reaches out and touches Crowley’s face, smiling through his tears. 

“My darling,” he says, “I’m much better than alright.”

Crowley’s heart thumps in his chest. Ezra has _never_ called him that before. He gives him a curious glance, unsure what to think. 

“It’s me, Crowley. I remember now. I went back to the cottage. I know you.”

In the space following that statement, Crowley isn’t entirely sure what happens. It’s as though the light around him goes dim and the greenhouse spins sideways, and he loses track of where the floor ends and his feet begin. 

When he remembers how to breathe and think, he finds that he’s being held upright. 

“That’s it,” he hears a voice saying. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“Aziraphale?” 

“Yes, my love. I’m here. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Crowley wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can. He’s waited so long to be able to speak to Aziraphale again, and yet he finds that he has no words for this moment. 

As they’re standing there, Aziraphale stroking his back, there comes a shift in the air. A subtle change of some kind. Abruptly, Crowley’s body is wracked with fear—and he realizes that it’s because it’s so similar to the change he felt and ignored on the day Aziraphale vanished. 

“No,” he cries, pulling him closer, not recognizing his own strained voice. “I can’t lose you again. I need you. I _need_ you.”

“Crowley,” comes Aziraphale’s voice, soothing and calm. “Look at me.”

Afraid though he is, Crowley does as Azriaphale asks, and he finds that they’re enveloped in white: Aziraphale’s wings are out and cocooning him. 

“We’re safe, Crowley. We’re not going to be apart again.” 

“Your wings,” he says. “How?”

“They couldn’t alter our true nature. They could only make us _believe_ it had been altered. Find yours, too, my love. I know you can.”

Crowley thinks that over for a moment. This whole time, he really did believe that he was human. Irrevocably mortal. But it was just an illusion. Heaven and Hell each had their own strategies, but the result was the same: Aziraphale and Crowley were apart and separately fooled into thinking they were powerless. 

Oddly, the thought is disappointing. Crowley had found some odd comfort, he realizes in retrospect, in thinking that his demon days were behind him. That he could leave Hell in the past. He’s not sure he wants to go back. But he’ll do it for his husband.

Aziraphale kisses him in encouragement. “Don’t be afraid. We’ve got forever waiting for us.”

Crowley kisses back, knowing he’s right. He would never leave Aziraphale alone, of course. Shutting his eyes and looking deep inside himself, he wills his wings to emerge in this dimension. Since he knows the truth now, they unfurl easily, like they were just there waiting all along. 

“Crowley?” comes Aziraphale’s voice again, tinged with a new urgency. “Open your eyes.”

When Crowley looks this time, he finds Aziraphale smiling through his tears. Crowley smiles back and moves to kiss him, but Aziraphale leans away. 

“Crowley, look at your _wings_!”

Confused, Crowley curls them forward and does a double-take. Where there should be black feathers, his own wings are sparkling white, like fresh snow in bright sunlight. 

“How?” he asks again, because this time he _really_ doesn’t understand. 

“Don’t you see?” Aziraphale says, stroking his hair. “Being a demon _isn’t_ your true nature, either. She gave us a way back. Not only back to each other. But back into grace.” 

Crowley still isn’t certain he understands; perhaps it follows that the other demons had to revoke his demon status in order to make him appear mortal, leaving him in a limbo of sorts? But all that honestly seems like a side note to the fact that Azirpahale is finally here. He pulls him into his arms again, pressing urgent kisses to his lips, his cheek, his ear. 

“I missed you so much,” Crowley says. 

“I know,” Aziraphale replies earnestly. “I feel it.”

Crowley blinks and realizes, belatedly, that he can also feel Aziraphale’s emotional palette now. He’s giving off radiant, beautiful love tinged with protectiveness and a little regret. It’s all there, when Crowley listens with his heart, and he closes his eyes to bask in it. As two angels, they can finally share in this way.

When he looks again, something catches his eye and he turns to the side to see a massive white gardenia that he’s certain was not there a moment ago. Glancing around, he finds that all the plants in the greenhouse have nearly doubled in size and many have sprouted new blossoms—including even the plants that shouldn’t have flowers at all. 

Aziraphale giggles at the sight, and when Crowley turns back, he pulls him into a kiss, still laughing, and transports them swiftly into bed. 

The first time they make love, it’s urgent and quick and Crowley is weeping when he reaches his peak. The second time, they move a little slower, savoring each other and holding eye-contact as they come in unison. The third time, Aziraphale takes his time pressing kisses to each expanse of Crowley’s body, starting with his lips, trailing down to his feet and then back up to his cock, where he remains a while until Crowley is seeing stars. 

Afterward, Aziraphale is stroking his hair as they lie facing each other. 

“I really fell in love with you, you know,” Aziraphale says, beaming. “All over again.”

“Me, too,” Crowley replies.

“I’m so proud of you. For finding me. For fighting for us.”

“I just … wanted to make you happy,” Crowley says. “I thought even if you couldn’t remember, at least you could be happy. At least we could be happy together.”

Aziraphale kisses his forehead. 

“Do you still miss him?” Crowley asks, heart thumping. 

“Who?” Aziraphale asks, brow creasing.

“Jay,” Crowley responds, incredulous. “I hated them for making you mourn someone who was never here. Someone I could never be.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale says. “You have it backwards, darling. Jay was more of a concept than an actual memory. He was … my mind filling in the blanks where they tried to erase you. They never created him; I did, because I refused to forget completely. And so reality bent a bit to accommodate me. I can see it all clearly, now. He was never a whole person. He was pieces of you. And here you are, Anthony _Jay_ Crowley. My dear husband.”

Aziraphale kisses him again, and they stay in bed for a very long time.


	10. And You And I

The whole ordeal was Gabriel’s plan, it turns out. Bitter and embarrassed that he had failed to execute Aziraphale, he decided to force him to live a mortal life, so that Aziraphale would have to endure the harsh realities of the world he’d fought to save. What Gabriel didn’t account for was that Hell would stop short of altering Crowley’s memories when they did the same—instead leaving them intact as part of his torment.

And what neither Heaven nor Hell had predicted, of course, was Aziraphale and Crowley saving each other. Again.

Gabriel had since been demoted for carrying out an unauthorized punishment and for scheming with Hell, Aziraphale had heard, but he had no interest in the affairs of Heaven anymore. Until the Almighty summoned him Herself, he’d be perfectly content to live on Earth with his husband, thanks very much.

It’s a bright, breezy day as Aziraphale follows Crowley toward the farmer’s market. He carries himself differently now, Aziraphale notices. Where Crowley was once all swagger, his posture is more relaxed, his chin upturned and optimistic.

As they pass by some flower boxes outside a pub, the blooms shift ever so slightly to face Crowley, as though he’s the sun itself. Aziraphale can’t help but smile to see it, though he isn’t sure if Crowley notices at all.

On the edge of the market square, Crowley stops and turns, reaching out for Aziraphale’s hand and then lacing their fingers together. Crowley’s eyes are restored now to their bright yellow beauty, but his pupils have remained round, and his auburn hair is tossed over his shoulder in a lovely side braid. Aziraphale feels a kinship with the flowers, in hindsight.

He kisses him, then, because he wants to, and that’s all the reason they need anymore.

Together, they walk over to a vendor selling fresh flowers and select a few bundles. By the time they leave the tent, the other flowers for sale look the slightest bit more vibrant than before.

“These will do very nicely,” Aziraphale observes.

Crowley nods his agreement, glancing at something else and then giving Aziraphale a knowing look. “Ice cream next?”

Aziraphale turns and sees another vendor handing delicious-looking cones to two women.

“Oh, yes! Let’s.”

***

Walking a few blocks over, they arrive at the once-bookshop-turned-gallery, which they’ve since converted into a library specifically for LGBTQA literature. Aziraphale stocked the shelves himself and takes pride in how extensive the collection is, with sections for fiction, health and medical guides, history and culture, foreign language and braille editions, audiobooks, and much more.

They visit regularly and often bring something to brighten the space, such as the flowers today. As Crowley gets them arranged in vases, Aziraphale talks with Naomi, one of two head librarians who manage the place. Wonderfully bright with a generous heart, Naomi took it upon herself to convert the top floor into a safehouse for young people, rather than making it her own flat.

She’s also added tables and chairs to the main room, so that there's plenty of space for people to sit and read, and installed a tea bar with free refreshments, including her wife’s delectable cakes.

“I do so love what you’ve done with this place,” Aziraphale says, glancing over at the gaggle of young people who are actively talking over books and biscuits. “It’s truly never looked better.”

“Oh,” she says, colorful bracelets clacking as she waves her hand. “I just added some finishing touches. None of this would have happened without the two of you. The neighborhood really needed something like this.”

“Well, we may have laid the groundwork, but you’re the real heart of this place. We couldn’t have done it without you and Mel.”

Crowley comes up beside him. “Truer words.”

“Thanks for the flowers,” Naomi says. “They look lovely.”

Crowley nods. “Glad you like them.”

“A little bird told me something about … a wedding anniversary?” Naomi asks slyly.

Aziraphale smiles, slipping his arm around Crowley’s waist. “Indeed. Twenty years.”

They decided not to count the previous year, since it’s not like the exact number matters much anyway. After sharing their (very simple) plans to celebrate, they make their goodbyes and head out of the library.

***

Back on the sidewalk, Crowley turns to his husband and pulls into a kiss, and they both linger for a while.

“Cottage?” he asks afterward.

“Yes,” Aziraphale happily agrees.

It took some time for Crowley to feel alright about going back there, and now that he does, he still can’t bear to be in separate rooms. Aziraphale seems to understand perfectly, never needing Crowley to explain.

They’ve kept the flat in Soho, too, unable to give it up now that it’s become another shared home. It feels quite comfortable, now, to split their time between the two places.

They take to the back patio of the cottage, nesting on a plush sofa and grooming each other’s wings as the sun sets. As Crowley sits facing the ocean, engulfed in both the sea breeze and Aziraphale’s love, his kind fingers working out loose feathers, it still feels a bit surreal to think that they’re back here. That they get their happy ending, after all.

Aziraphale has paused, so Crowley shifts to glance over his shoulder and finds him holding one of Crowley’s feathers, marveling at the way it looks in the golden hour. Where Aziraphale’s wings are pure, flat white, Crowely’s have a subtle iridescence that shifts and shimmers with movement.

“So beautiful,” Aziraphale says. “You’ve got the whole spectrum in your feathers.”

“Rainbow pride.”

Aziraphale chuckles and pulls him into an embrace from behind. They put their wings away, and Crowley reclines against him, watching the sunset over the water.

It might be somewhat satisfying, Crowley idly muses, to see the demons again in his current state. To stare them down as an angel, redeemed and untouchable.

But even better would be to _never_ see them again. To live out six more millennia with Aziraphale by his side this time, happy and safe and free. At the thought, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s hand and lifts it to his lips, pressing a kiss just below his gold ring. Aziraphale’s emotions shift to overwhelming affection and pride and gratefulness as he does it.

That could never get old, this new ability to feel each other.

“I love you,” Crowley says, because that will never get old, either.

“And I love you,” Aziraphale answers. “My angel.”

***

_ And you and I climb, crossing the shapes of the morning _

_ And you and I reach over the sun for the river _

_ And you and I climb, clearer, towards the movement _

_ And you and I called over valleys of endless seas _

**_—Yes_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Hope you enjoyed it. ♥


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